THE
WORKS OF BRET HARTE.
Riverside Edition.
_COLLECTED AND REVISED BY THE AUTHOR._
GABRIEL CONROY
BY
BRET HARTE
[Illustration]
BOSTON
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
NEW YORK: 11 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1882
Copyright, 1875,
BY AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Copyright, 1882,
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.--ON THE THRESHOLD.
CHAP. PAGE
I. WITHOUT 1
II. WITHIN 9
III. GABRIEL 21
IV. NATURE SHOWS THEM THE WAY 26
V. OUT OF THE WOODS--INTO THE SHADOW 30
VI. FOOTPRINTS 36
VII. IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS BEGIN TO FADE 40
VIII. THE FOOTPRINTS GROW FAINTER 43
IX. IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS ARE LOST FOR EVER 47
BOOK II.--AFTER FIVE YEARS.
I. ONE HORSE GULCH 54
II. MADAME DEVARGES 65
III. MRS. MARKLE 74
IV. IN WHICH THE ARTFUL GABRIEL IS DISCOVERED 87
V. SIMPLICITY _versus_ SAGACITY 95
BOOK III.--THE LEAD.
I. AN OLD PIONEER OF '49 108
II. A CLOUD OF WITNESSES 118
III. THE CHARMING MRS. SEPULVIDA 125
IV. FATHER FELIPE 132
V. IN WHICH THE DONNA MARIA MAKES AN IMPRESSION 140
VI. THE LADY OF GRIEF 151
VII. A LEAF OUT OF THE PAST 165
VIII. THE BULLS OF THE BLESSED TRINITY 171
BOOK IV.--DRIFTING.
I. MR. AND MRS. CONROY AT HOME 178
II. IN WHICH THE TREASURE IS FOUND--AND LOST 191
III. MR. DUMPHY MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 205
IV. MR. JACK HAMLIN TAKES A HOLIDAY 212
V. VICTOR MAKES A DISCOVERY 222
VI. AN EXPERT 231
BOOK V.--THE VEIN.
I. IN WHICH GABRIEL RECOGNISES THE PROPRIETIES 243
II. TRANSIENT GUESTS AT THE GRAND CONROY 257
III. IN WHICH MR. DUMPHY TAKES A HOLIDAY 266
IV. MR. DUMPHY HAS NEWS OF A DOMESTIC CHARACTER 280
V. MRS. CONROY HAS AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 291
VI. GABRIEL DISCARDS HIS HOME AND WEALTH 299
VII. WHAT PASSED UNDER THE PINE AND WHAT REMAINED
THERE 305
BOOK VI.--A DIP.
I. MR. HAMLIN'S RECREATION CONTINUED 317
II. MR. HAMLIN TAKES A HAND 325
III. MR DUMPHY TAKES POINSETT INTO CONFIDENCE 338
IV. MR. HAMLIN IS OFF WITH AN OLD LOVE 349
V. THE THREE VOICES 354
VI. MR. DUMPHY IS PERPLEXED BY A MOVEMENT IN REAL
ESTATE 363
VII. IN WHICH BOTH JUSTICE AND THE HEAVENS FALL 376
VIII. IN TENEBRIS SERVARE FIDEM 387
IX. IN WHICH HECTOR ARISES FROM THE DITCH 398
BOOK VII.--THE BED ROCK.
I. IN THE TRACK OF A STORM 409
II. THE YELLOW ENVELOPE 423
III. GABRIEL MEETS HIS LAWYER 435
IV. WHAT AH FE DOES NOT KNOW 447
V. THE PEOPLE _v._ JOHN DOE _alias_ GABRIEL CONROY,
AND JANE ROE _alias_ JULIE CONROY 452
VI. IN REBUTTAL 461
VII. A FAMILY GREETING 471
VIII. IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS RETURN 477
IX. IN WHICH MR. HAMLIN PASSES 481
X. IN THE OLD CABIN AGAIN 491
XI. THE RETURN OF A FOOTPRINT 495
XII. FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM OLYMPIA CONROY TO
GRACE POINSETT 497
GABRIEL CONROY.
BOOK I.
_ON THE THRESHOLD._
CHAPTER I.
WITHOUT.
Snow. Everywhere. As far as the eye could reach--fifty miles, looking
southward from the highest white peak,--filling ravines and gulches, and
dropping from the walls of cañons in white shroud-like drifts,
fashioning the dividing ridge into the likeness of a monstrous grave,
hiding the bases of giant pines, and completely covering young trees and
larches, rimming with porcelain the bowl-like edges of still, cold
lakes, and undulating in motionless white billows to the edge of the
distant horizon. Snow lying everywhere over the California Sierras on
the 15th day of March 1848, and still falling.
It had been snowing for ten days: snowing in finely granulated powder,
in damp, spongy flakes, in thin, feathery plumes, snowing from a leaden
sky steadily, snowing fiercely, shaken out of purple-black clouds in
white flocculent masses, or dropping in long level lines, like white
lances from the tumbled and broken heavens. But always silently! The
woods were so choked with it--the branches were so laden with it--it
had so permeated, filled and possessed earth and sky; it had so
cushioned and muffled the ringing rocks and echoing hills, that all
sound was deadened. The strongest gust, the fiercest blast, awoke no
sigh or complaint from the snow-packed, rigid files of forest. There was
no cracking of bough nor crackle of underbrush; the overladen branches
of pine and fir yielded and gave way without a sound. The silence was
vast, measureless, complete! Nor could it be said that any outward sign
of life or motion changed the fixed outlines of this stricken landscape.
Above, there was no play of light and shadow, only the occasional
deepening of storm or night. Below, no bird winged its flight across the
white expanse, no beast haunted the confines of the black woods;
whatever of brute nature might have once inhabited these solitudes had
long since flown to the lowlands.
There was no track or imprint; whatever foot might have left its mark
upon this waste, each succeeding snow-fall obliterated all trace or
record. Every morning the solitude was virgin and unbroken; a million
tiny feet had stepped into the track and filled it up. And yet, in the
centre of this desolation, in the very stronghold of this grim fortress,
there was the mark of human toil. A few trees had been felled at the
entrance of the cañon, and the freshly-cut chips were but lightly
covered with snow. They served, perhaps, to indicate another tree
"blazed" with an axe, and bearing a rudely-shaped wooden effigy of a
human hand, pointing to the cañon. Below the hand was a square strip of
canvas, securely nailed against the bark, and bearing the following
inscription--
"NOTICE.
CAPTAIN CONROY'S party of emigrants are lost in the snow, and
camped up in this cañon. Out of provisions and starving!
Left St. Jo, October 8th, 1847.
Left Salt Lake, January 1st, 1848.
Arrived here, March 1st, 1848.
Lost half our stock on the Platte.
Abandoned our waggons, February 20th.
_HELP!_
Our names are:
JOEL MCCORMICK, JANE BRACKETT,
PETER DUMPHY, GABRIEL CONROY,
PAUL DEVARGES, JOHN WALKER,
GRACE CONROY, HENRY MARCH,
OLYMPIA CONROY, PHILIP ASHLEY,
MARY DUMPHY.
(Then in smaller letters, in pencil:)
MAMIE died, November 8th, Sweetwater.
MINNIE died, December 1st, Echo Cañon.
JANE died, January 2nd, Salt Lake.
JAMES BRACKETT, lost, February 3rd.
HELP!"
The language of suffering is not apt to be artistic or studied, but I
think that rhetoric could not improve this actual record. So I let it
stand, even as it stood this 15th day of March 1848, half-hidden by a
thin film of damp snow, the snow-whitened hand stiffened and pointing
rigidly to the fateful cañon like the finger of Death.
At noon there was a lull in the storm, and a slight brightening of the
sky toward the east. The grim outlines of the distant hills returned,
and the starved white flank of the mountain began to glisten. Across its
gaunt hollow some black object was moving--moving slowly and
laboriously; moving with such an uncertain mode of progression, that at
first it was difficult to detect whether it was brute or
human--sometimes on all fours, sometimes erect, again hurrying forward
like a drunken man, but always with a certain definiteness of purpose,
towards the cañon. As it approached nearer you saw that it was a man--a
haggard man, ragged and enveloped in a tattered buffalo robe, but still
a man, and a determined one. A young man despite his bent figure and
wasted limbs--a young man despite the premature furrows that care and
anxiety had set upon his brow and in the corners of his rigid mouth--a
young man notwithstanding the expression of savage misanthropy with
which suffering and famine had overlaid the frank impulsiveness of
youth. When he reached the tree at the entrance of the cañon, he brushed
the film of snow from the canvas placard, and then leaned for a few
moments exhaustedly against its trunk. There was something in the
abandonment of his attitude that indicated even more pathetically than
his face and figure his utter prostration--a prostration quite
inconsistent with any visible cause. When he had rested himself, he
again started forward with a nervous intensity, shambling, shuffling,
falling, stooping to replace the rudely extemporised snow-shoes of fir
bark that frequently slipped from his feet, but always starting on again
with the feverishness of one who doubted even the sustaining power of
his will.
A mile beyond the tree the cañon narrowed and turned gradually to the
south, and at this point a thin curling cloud of smoke was visible that
seemed to rise from some crevice in the snow. As he came nearer, the
impression of recent footprints began to show; there was some
displacement of the snow around a low mound from which the smoke now
plainly issued. Here he stopped, or rather lay down, before an opening
or cavern in the snow, and uttered a feeble shout. It was responded to
still more feebly. Presently a face appeared above the opening, and a
ragged figure like his own, then another, and then another, until eight
human creatures, men and women, surrounded him in the snow, squatting
like animals, and like animals lost to all sense of decency and shame.
They were so haggard, so faded, so forlorn, so wan,--so piteous in
their human aspect, or rather all that was left of a human aspect,--that
they might have been wept over as they sat there; they were so brutal,
so imbecile, unreasoning and grotesque in these newer animal attributes,
that they might have provoked a smile. They were originally country
people, mainly of that social class whose self-respect is apt to be
dependent rather on their circumstances, position and surroundings, than
upon any individual moral power or intellectual force. They had lost the
sense of shame in the sense of equality of suffering; there was nothing
within them to take the place of the material enjoyments they were
losing. They were childish without the ambition or emulation of
childhood; they were men and women without the dignity or simplicity of
man and womanhood. All that had raised them above the level of the brute
was lost in the snow. Even the characteristics of sex were gone; an old
woman of sixty quarrelled, fought, and swore with the harsh utterance
and ungainly gestures of a man; a young man of scorbutic temperament
wept, sighed, and fainted with the hysteria of a woman. So profound was
their degradation that the stranger who had thus evoked them from the
earth, even in his very rags and sadness, seemed of another race.
They were all intellectually weak and helpless, but one, a woman,
appeared to have completely lost her mind. She carried a small blanket
wrapped up to represent a child--the tangible memory of one that had
starved to death in her arms a few days before--and rocked it from side
to side as she sat, with a faith that was piteous. But even more piteous
was the fact that none of her companions took the least notice, either
by sympathy or complaint, of her aberration. When, a few moments later,
she called upon them to be quiet, for that "baby" was asleep, they
glared at her indifferently and went on. A red-haired man, who was
chewing a piece of buffalo hide, cast a single murderous glance at her,
but the next moment seemed to have forgotten her presence in his more
absorbing occupation.
The stranger paused a moment rather to regain his breath than to wait
for their more orderly and undivided attention. Then he uttered the
single word:
"Nothing!"
"Nothing!" They all echoed the word simultaneously, but with different
inflection and significance--one fiercely, another gloomily, another
stupidly, another mechanically. The woman with the blanket baby
explained to it, "he says 'nothing,'" and laughed.
"No--nothing," repeated the speaker. "Yesterday's snow blocked up the
old trail again. The beacon on the summit's burnt out. I left a notice
at the Divide. Do that again, Dumphy, and I'll knock the top of your
ugly head off."
Dumphy, the red-haired man, had rudely shoved and stricken the woman
with the baby--she was his wife, and this conjugal act may have been
partly habit--as she was crawling nearer the speaker. She did not seem
to notice the blow or its giver--the apathy with which these people
received blows or slights was more terrible than wrangling--but said
assuringly, when she had reached the side of the young man--
"To-morrow, then?"
The face of the young man softened as he made the same reply he had made
for the last eight days to the same question--
"To-morrow, surely!"
She crawled away, still holding the effigy of her dead baby very
carefully, and retreated down the opening.
"'Pears to me you don't do much anyway, out scouting! 'Pears to me you
ain't worth shucks!" said the harsh-voiced woman, glancing at the
speaker. "Why don't some on ye take his place? Why do you trust your
lives and the lives of women to that thar Ashley?" she continued, with
her voice raised to a strident bark.
The hysterical young man, Henry March, who sat next to her, turned a
wild scared face upon her, and then, as if fearful of being dragged into
the conversation, disappeared hastily after Mrs. Dumphy.
Ashley shrugged his shoulders, and, replying to the group, rather than
any individual speaker, said curtly--
"There's but one chance--equal for all--open to all. You know what it
is. To stay here is death; to go cannot be worse than that."
He rose and walked slowly away up the cañon a few rods to where another
mound was visible, and disappeared from their view. When he had gone, a
querulous chatter went around the squatting circle.
"Gone to see the old Doctor and the gal. We're no account."
"Thar's two too many in this yer party."
"Yes--the crazy Doctor and Ashley."
"They're both interlopers, any way."
"Jonahs."
"Said no good could come of it, ever since we picked him up."
"But the Cap'n invited the ol' Doctor, and took all his stock at
Sweetwater, and Ashley put in his provisions with the rest."
The speaker was McCormick. Somewhere in the feeble depths of his
consciousness there was still a lingering sense of justice. He was
hungry, but not unreasonable. Besides, he remembered with a tender
regret the excellent quality of provision that Ashley had furnished.
"What's that got to do with it?" screamed Mrs. Brackett. "He brought the
bad luck with him. Ain't my husband dead, and isn't that skunk--an
entire stranger--still livin'?"
The voice was masculine, but the logic was feminine. In cases of great
prostration with mental debility, in the hopeless vacuity that precedes
death by inanition or starvation, it is sometimes very effective. They
all assented to it, and, by a singular intellectual harmony, the
expression of each was the same. It was simply an awful curse.
"What are you goin' to do?"
"If I was a man, I'd know!"
"Knife him!"
"Kill him, and"----
The remainder of this sentence was lost to the others in a confidential
whisper between Mrs. Brackett and Dumphy. After this confidence they sat
and wagged their heads together, like two unmatched but hideous Chinese
idols.
"Look at his strength! and he not a workin' man like us," said Dumphy.
"Don't tell me he don't get suthin' reg'lar."
"Suthin' what?"
"Suthin' TO EAT!"
But it is impossible to convey, even by capitals, the intense emphasis
put upon this verb. It was followed by a horrible pause.
"Let's go and see."
"And kill him?" suggested the gentle Mrs. Brackett.
They all rose with a common interest almost like enthusiasm. But after
they had tottered a few steps, they fell. Yet even then there was not
enough self-respect left among them to feel any sense of shame or
mortification in their baffled design. They stopped--all except Dumphy.
"Wot's that dream you was talkin' 'bout jess now?" said Mr. McCormick,
sitting down and abandoning the enterprise with the most shameless
indifference.
"'Bout the dinner at St. Jo?" asked the person addressed--a gentleman
whose faculty of alimentary imagination had been at once the bliss and
torment of his present social circle.
"Yes."
They all gathered eagerly around Mr. McCormick; even Mr. Dumphy, who was
still moving away, stopped.
"Well," said Mr. March, "it began with beefsteak and injins--beefsteak,
you know, juicy and cut very thick, and jess squashy with gravy and
injins." There was a very perceptible watering of the mouth in the
party, and Mr. March, with the genius of a true narrator, under the
plausible disguise of having forgotten his story, repeated the last
sentence--"jess squashy with gravy and injins. And taters--baked."
"You said fried before!--and dripping with fat!" interposed Mrs.
Brackett, hastily.
"For them as likes fried--but baked goes furder--skins and all--and
sassage and coffee and flapjacks!"
At this magical word they laughed, not mirthfully perhaps, but eagerly
and expectantly, and said, "Go on!"
"And flapjacks!"
"You said that afore," said Mrs. Brackett, with a burst of passion. "Go
on!" with an oath.
The giver of this Barmecide feast saw his dangerous position, and looked
around for Dumphy, but he had disappeared.
CHAPTER II.
WITHIN.
The hut into which Ashley descended was like a Greenlander's "iglook,"
below the surface of the snow. Accident rather than design had given it
this Arctic resemblance. As snow upon snow had blocked up its entrance,
and reared its white ladders against its walls, and as the strength of
its exhausted inmates slowly declined, communication with the outward
world was kept up only by a single narrow passage. Excluded from the
air, it was close and stifling, but it had a warmth that perhaps the
thin blood of its occupants craved more than light or ventilation.
A smouldering fire in a wooden chimney threw a faint flicker on the
walls. By its light, lying on the floor, were discernible four
figures--a young woman and a child of three or four years wrapped in a
single blanket, near the fire; nearer the door two men, separately
enwrapped, lay apart. They might have been dead, so deep and motionless
were their slumbers.
Perhaps some fear of this filled the mind of Ashley as he entered, for
after a moment's hesitation, without saying a word, he passed quickly to
the side of the young woman, and, kneeling beside her, placed his hand
upon her face. Slight as was the touch, it awakened her. I know not what
subtle magnetism was in that contact, but she caught the hand in her
own, sat up, and before the eyes were scarcely opened, uttered the
single word--
"Philip!"
"Grace--hush!"
He took her hand, kissed it, and pointed warningly toward the other
sleepers.
"Speak low. I have much to say to you."
The young girl seemed to be content to devour the speaker with her eyes.
"You have come back," she whispered, with a faint smile, and a look that
showed too plainly the predominance of that fact above all others in her
mind. "I dreamt of you, Philip."
"Dear Grace"--he kissed her hand again. "Listen to me, darling! I have
come back, but only with the old story--no signs of succour, no
indications of help from without! My belief is, Grace," he added, in a
voice so low as to be audible only to the quick ear to which it was
addressed, "that we have blundered far south of the usual travelled
trail. Nothing but a miracle or a misfortune like our own would bring
another train this way. We are alone and helpless--in an unknown region
that even the savage and brute have abandoned. The only aid we can
calculate upon is from within--from ourselves. What that aid amounts
to," he continued, turning a cynical eye towards the sleepers, "you know
as well as I."
She pressed his hand, apologetically, as if accepting the reproach
herself, but did not speak.
"As a party we have no strength--no discipline," he went on. "Since your
father died we have had no leader. I know what you would say, Grace
dear," he continued, answering the mute protest of the girl's hand, "but
even if it were true--if I were capable of leading them, they would not
take my counsels. Perhaps it is as well. If we kept together, the
greatest peril of our situation would be ever present--the peril from
_ourselves_!"
He looked intently at her as he spoke, but she evidently did not take
his meaning. "Grace," he said, desperately, "when starving men are
thrown together, they are capable of any sacrifice--of any crime, to
keep the miserable life that they hold so dear just in proportion as it
becomes valueless. You have read in books--Grace! good God, what is the
matter?"
If she had not read his meaning in books, she might have read it at that
moment in the face that was peering in at the door--a face with so much
of animal suggestion in its horrible wistfulness that she needed no
further revelation; a face full of inhuman ferocity and watchful
eagerness, and yet a face familiar in its outlines--the face of Dumphy!
Even with her danger came the swifter instinct of feminine tact and
concealment, and without betraying the real cause of her momentary
horror, she dropped her head upon Philip's shoulder and whispered, "I
understand." When she raised her head again the face was gone.
"Enough, I did not mean to frighten you, Grace, but only to show you
what we must avoid--what we have still strength left to avoid. There is
but one chance of escape; you know what it is--a desperate one, but no
more desperate than this passive waiting for a certain end. I ask you
again--will you share it with me? When I first spoke I was less sanguine
than now. Since then I have explored the ground carefully, and studied
the trend of these mountains. It is _possible_. I say no more."
"But my sister and brother?"
"The child would be a hopeless impediment, even if she could survive the
fatigue and exposure. Your brother must stay with her; she will need all
his remaining strength and all the hopefulness that keeps him up. No,
Grace, we must go alone. Remember, our safety means theirs. Their
strength will last until we can send relief; while they would sink in
the attempt to reach it with us. I would go alone, but I cannot bear,
dear Grace, to leave you here."
"I should die if you left me," she said, simply.
"I believe you would, Grace," he said as simply.
"But can we not wait? Help may come at any moment--to-morrow."
"To-morrow will find us weaker. I should not trust your strength nor my
own a day longer."
"But the old man--the Doctor?"
"He will soon be beyond the reach of help," said the young man, sadly.
"Hush, he is moving."
One of the blanketed figures had rolled over. Philip walked to the fire,
threw on a fresh stick, and stirred the embers. The upspringing flash
showed the face of an old man whose eyes were fixed with feverish
intensity upon him.
"What are you doing with the fire?" he asked querulously, with a slight
foreign accent.
"Stirring it!"
"Leave it alone!"
Philip listlessly turned away.
"Come here," said the old man.
Philip approached.
"You need say nothing," said the old man after a pause, in which he
examined Philip's face keenly. "I read your news in your face--the old
story--I know it by heart."
"Well?" said Philip.
"Well!" said the old man, stolidly.
Philip again turned away.
"You buried the case and papers?" asked the old man.
"Yes."
"Through the snow--in the earth?"
"Yes."
"Securely?"
"Securely."
"How do you indicate it?"
"By a cairn of stones."
"And the notices--in German and French?"
"I nailed them up wherever I could, near the old trail."
"Good."
The cynical look on Philip's face deepened as he once more turned away.
But before he reached the door he paused, and drawing from his breast a
faded flower, with a few limp leaves, handed it to the old man.
"I found the duplicate of the plant you were looking for."
The old man half rose on his elbow, breathless with excitement as he
clutched and eagerly examined the plant.
"It is the same," he said, with a sigh of relief, "and yet you said
there was no news!"
"May I ask what it means?" said Philip, with a slight smile.
"It means that I am right, and Linnæus, Darwin, and Eschscholtz are
wrong. It means a discovery. It means that this which you call an Alpine
flower is not one, but a new species."
"An important fact to starving men," said Philip, bitterly.
"It means more," continued the old man, without heeding Philip's tone.
"It means that this flower is not developed in perpetual snow. It means
that it is first germinated in a warm soil and under a kindly sun. It
means that if you had not plucked it, it would have fulfilled its
destiny under those conditions. It means that in two months grass will
be springing where you found it--even where we now lie. We are below the
limit of perpetual snow."
"In two months!" said the young girl, eagerly, clasping her hands.
"In two months," said the young man, bitterly. "In two months we shall
be far from here, or dead."
"Probably!" said the old man, coolly; "but if you have fulfilled my
injunctions in regard to my papers and the collection, they will in good
time be discovered and saved."
Ashley turned away with an impatient gesture, and the old man's head
again sank exhaustedly upon his arm. Under the pretext of caressing the
child, Ashley crossed over to Grace, uttered a few hurried and almost
inaudible words, and disappeared through the door. When he had gone, the
old man raised his head again and called feebly--
"Grace!"
"Dr. Devarges!"
"Come here!"
She rose and crossed over to his side.
"Why did he stir the fire, Grace?" said Devarges, with a suspicious
glance.
"I don't know."
"You tell him everything--did you tell him that?"
"I did not, sir."
Devarges looked as if he would read the inmost thoughts of the girl, and
then, as if reassured, said--
"Take it from the fire, and let it cool in the snow."
The young girl raked away the embers of the dying fire, and disclosed
what seemed to be a stone of the size of a hen's egg incandescent and
glowing. With the aid of two half-burnt slicks she managed to extract
it, and deposited it in a convenient snow-drift near the door, and then
returned to the side of the old man.
"Grace!"
"Sir!"
"You are going away!"
Grace did not speak.
"Don't deny it. I overheard you. Perhaps it is the best that you can do.
But whether it is or not you will do it--of course. Grace, what do you
know of that man?"
Neither the contact of daily familiarity, the quality of suffering, nor
the presence of approaching death, could subdue the woman's nature in
Grace. She instantly raised her shield. From behind it she began to
fence feebly with the dying man.
"Why, what we all know of him, sir--a true friend; a man to whose
courage, intellect, and endurance we owe so much. And so unselfish,
sir!"
"Humph!--what else?"
"Nothing--except that he has always been your devoted friend--and I
thought you were his. You brought him to us," she said a little
viciously.
"Yes--I picked him up at Sweetwater. But what do you know of his
history? What has he told you?"
"He ran away from a wicked stepfather and relations whom he hated. He
came out West to live alone--among the Indians--or to seek his fortune
in Oregon. He is very proud--you know, sir. He is as unlike us as you
are, sir,--he is a gentleman. He is educated."
"Yes, I believe that's what they call it here, and he doesn't know the
petals of a flower from the stamens," muttered Devarges. "Well! After
you run away with him does he propose to marry you?"
For an instant a faint flush deepened the wan cheek of the girl, and she
lost her guard. But the next moment she recovered it.
"Oh, sir," said this arch hypocrite, sweetly, "how can you jest so
cruelly at such a moment? The life of my dear brother and sister, the
lives of the poor women in yonder hut, depend upon our going. He and I
are the only ones left who have strength enough to make the trial. I can
assist him, for, although strong, I require less to support my strength
than he. Something tells me we shall be successful; we shall return soon
with help. Oh, sir,--it is no time for trifling now; our lives--even
your own is at stake!"
"My own life," said the old man, impassively, "is already spent. Before
you return, if you return at all, I shall be beyond your help."
A spasm of pain appeared to pass over his face. He lay still for a
moment as if to concentrate his strength for a further effort. But when
he again spoke his voice was much lower, and he seemed to articulate
with difficulty.
"Grace," he said at last, "come nearer, girl,--I have something to tell
you."
Grace hesitated. Within the last few moments a shy, nervous dread of the
man which she could not account for had taken possession of her. She
looked toward her sleeping brother.
"He will not waken," said Devarges, following the direction of her eyes.
"The anodyne still holds its effect. Bring me what you took from the
fire."
Grace brought the stone--a dull bluish-grey slag. The old man took it,
examined it, and then said to Grace--
"Rub it briskly on your blanket."
Grace did so. After a few moments it began to exhibit a faint white
lustre on its polished surface.
"It looks like silver," said Grace, doubtfully.
"It _is_ silver!" replied Devarges.
Grace put it down quickly and moved slightly away.
"Take it," said the old man,--"it is yours. A year ago I found it in a
ledge of the mountain range far west of this. I know where it lies in
bulk--a fortune, Grace, do you hear?--hidden in the bluish stone you put
in the fire for me last night. I can tell you where and how to find it.
I can give you the title to it--the right of discovery. Take it--it is
yours."
"No, no," said the girl, hurriedly, "keep it yourself. You will live to
enjoy it."
"Never, Grace! even were I to live I should not make use of it. I have
in my life had more than my share of it, and it brought me no happiness.
It has no value to me--the rankest weed that grows above it is worth
more in my eyes. Take it. To the world it means everything--wealth and
position. Take it. It will make you as proud and independent as your
lover--it will make you always gracious in his eyes;--it will be a
setting to your beauty,--it will be a pedestal to your virtue. Take
it--it is yours."
"But you have relatives--friends," said the girl, drawing away from the
shining stone with a half superstitious awe. "There are others whose
claims"----
"None greater than yours," interrupted the old man, with the nervous
haste of failing breath. "Call it a reward if you choose. Look upon it
as a bribe to keep your lover to the fulfilment of his promise to
preserve my manuscripts and collection. Think, if you like, that it is
an act of retribution--that once in my life I might have known a young
girl whose future would have been blessed by such a gift. Think--think
what you like--but take it!"
His voice had sunk to a whisper. A greyish pallor had overspread his
face, and his breath came with difficulty. Grace would have called her
brother, but with a motion of his hand Devarges restrained her. With a
desperate effort he raised himself upon his elbow, and drawing an
envelope from his pocket, put it in her hand.
"It contains--map--description of mine and locality--yours--say you will
take it--Grace, quick, say"----
His head had again sunk to the floor. She stooped to raise it. As she
did so a slight shadow darkened the opening by the door. She raised her
eyes quickly and saw the face of Dumphy!
She did not shrink this time; but, with a sudden instinct, she turned to
Devarges, and said--
"I will!"
She raised her eyes again defiantly, but the face had disappeared.
"Thank you," said the old man. His lips moved again, but without a
sound. A strange film had begun to gather in his eyes.
"Dr. Devarges," whispered Grace.
He did not speak. "He is dying," thought the young girl as a new and
sudden fear overcame her. She rose quickly and crossed hurriedly to her
brother and shook him. A prolonged inspiration, like a moan, was the
only response. For a moment she glanced wildly around the room and then
ran to the door.
"Philip!"
There was no response. She climbed up through the tunnel-like opening.
It was already quite dark, and a few feet beyond the hut nothing was
distinguishable. She cast a rapid backward glance, and then, with a
sudden desperation, darted forward into the darkness. At the same moment
two figures raised themselves from behind the shadow of the mound and
slipped down the tunnel into the hut--Mrs. Brackett and Mr. Dumphy. They
might have been the meanest predatory animals--so stealthy, so eager, so
timorous, so crouching, and yet so agile were their motions. They ran
sometimes upright, and sometimes on all fours, hither and thither. They
fell over each other in their eagerness, and struck and spat savagely at
each other in the half darkness. They peered into corners, they rooted
in the dying embers and among the ashes, they groped among the skins and
blankets, they smelt and sniffed at every article. They paused at last
apparently unsuccessful, and glared at each other.
"They must have eaten it," said Mrs. Brackett, in a hoarse whisper.
"It didn't look like suthin' to eat," said Dumphy.
"You saw 'em take it from the fire?"
"Yes!"
"And rub it?"
"Yes!"
"Fool. Don't you see"----
"What?"
"It was a baked potato."
Dumphy sat dumfounded.
"Why should they rub it? It takes off the cracklin' skins," he said.
"They've got such fine stomachs!" answered Mrs. Bracket, with an oath.
Dumphy was still aghast with the importance of his discovery.
"He said he knew where there was more!" he whispered eagerly.
"Where?"
"I didn't get to hear."
"Fool! Why didn't ye rush in and grip his throat until he told yer?"
hissed Mrs. Brackett, in a tempest of baffled rage and disappointment.
"Ye ain't got the spunk of a flea. Let me get hold of that gal--Hush!
what's that?"
"He's moving!" said Dumphy.
In an instant they had both changed again into slinking, crouching,
baffled animals, eager only for escape. Yet they dared not move.
The old man had turned over, and his lips were moving in the mutterings
of delirium. Presently he called "Grace!"
With a sign of caution to her companion, the woman leaned over him.
"Yes, deary, I'm here."
"Tell him not to forget. Make him keep his promise. Ask him where it is
buried!"
"Yes, deary!"
"He'll tell you. He knows!"
"Yes, deary!"
"At the head of Monument Cañon. A hundred feet north of the lone pine.
Dig two feet down below the surface of the cairn."
"Yes!"
"Where the wolves can't get it."
"Yes!"
"The stones keep it from ravenous beasts."
"Yes, in course."
"That might tear it up."
"Yes!"
"Starving beasts!"
"Yes, deary!"
The fire of his wandering eyes went out suddenly, like a candle; his jaw
dropped; he was dead. And over him the man and woman crouched in fearful
joy, looking at each other with the first smile that had been upon their
lips since they had entered the fateful cañon.
CHAPTER III.
GABRIEL.
It was found the next morning that the party was diminished by five.
Philip Ashley and Grace Conroy, Peter Dumphy and Mrs. Brackett, were
missing; Dr. Paul Devarges was dead. The death of the old man caused but
little excitement and no sorrow; the absconding of the others was
attributed to some information which they had selfishly withheld from
the remaining ones, and produced a spasm of impotent rage. In five
minutes their fury knew no bounds. The lives and property of the
fugitives were instantly declared forfeit. Steps were taken--about
twenty, I think--in the direction of their flight, but finally
abandoned.
Only one person knew that Philip and Grace had gone together--Gabriel
Conroy. On awakening early that morning he had found pinned to his
blanket a paper with these words in pencil--
"God bless dear brother and sister, and keep them until Philip and I
come back with help."
With it were a few scraps of provisions, evidently saved by Grace from
her scant rations, and left as a parting gift. These Gabriel instantly
turned into the common stock. Then he began to comfort the child. Added
to his natural hopefulness, he had a sympathetic instinct with the pains
and penalties of childhood, not so much a quality of his intellect as
of his nature. He had all the physical adaptabilities of a nurse--a
large, tender touch, a low persuasive voice, pliant yet unhesitating
limbs, and broad, well-cushioned surfaces. During the weary journey
women had instinctively entrusted babies to his charge; most of the dead
had died in his arms; all forms and conditions of helplessness had
availed themselves of his easy capacity. No one thought of thanking him.
I do not think he ever expected it; he always appeared morally
irresponsible and quite unconscious of his own importance, and, as is
frequent in such cases, there was a tendency to accept his services at
his own valuation. Nay more, there was a slight consciousness of
superiority in those who thus gave him an opportunity of exhibiting his
special faculty.
"Olly," he said, after an airy preliminary toss, "would ye like to have
a nice dolly?"
Olly opened her wide hungry eyes in hopeful anticipation and nodded
assent.
"A nice dolly, with real mamma," he continued, "who plays with it like a
true baby. Would ye like to help her play with it?"
The idea of a joint partnership of this kind evidently pleased Olly by
its novelty.
"Well then, brother Gabe will get you one. But Gracie will have to go
away, so that the doll's mamma kin come."
Olly at first resented this, but eventually succumbed to novelty, after
the fashion of her sex, starving or otherwise. Yet she prudently asked--
"Is it ever hungry?"
"It is never hungry," replied Gabriel, confidently.
"Oh!" said Olly, with an air of relief.
Then Gabriel, the cunning, sought Mrs. Dumphy, the mentally alienated.
"You are jest killin' of yourself with the tendin' o' that child," he
said, after bestowing a caress on the blanket and slightly pinching an
imaginary cheek of the effigy. "It would be likelier and stronger fur a
playmate. Good gracious! how thin it is gettin'. A change will do it
good; fetch it to Olly, and let her help you to tend it
until--until--to-morrow." To-morrow was the extreme limit of Mrs.
Dumphy's future.
So Mrs. Dumphy and her effigy were installed in Gracie's place, and Olly
was made happy. A finer nature or a more active imagination than
Gabriel's would have revolted at this monstrous combination; but Gabriel
only saw that they appeared contented, and the first pressing difficulty
of Gracie's absence was overcome. So alternately they took care of the
effigy, the child simulating the cares of the future and losing the
present in them, the mother living in the memories of the past. Perhaps
it might have been pathetic to have seen Olly and Mrs. Dumphy both
saving the infinitesimal remnants of their provisions for the doll, but
the only spectator was one of the actors, Gabriel, who lent himself to
the deception; and pathos, to be effective, must be viewed from the
outside.
At noon that day the hysterical young man, Gabriel's cousin, died.
Gabriel went over to the other hut and endeavoured to cheer the
survivors. He succeeded in infecting them so far with his hopefulness as
to loosen the tongue and imagination of the story-teller, but at four
o'clock the body had not yet been buried. It was evening, and the three
were sitting over the embers, when a singular change came over Mrs.
Dumphy. The effigy suddenly slipped from her hands, and looking up,
Gabriel perceived that her arms had dropped to her side, and that her
eyes were fixed on vacancy. He spoke to her, but she made no sign nor
response of any kind. He touched her and found her limbs rigid and
motionless. Olly began to cry.
The sound seemed to agitate Mrs. Dumphy. Without moving a limb, she
said, in a changed, unnatural voice, "Hark!"
Olly choked her sobs at a sign from Gabriel.
"They're coming!" said Mrs. Dumphy.
"Which?" said Gabriel.
"The relief party."
"Where?"
"Far, far away. They're jest setting out. I see 'em--a dozen men with
pack horses and provisions. The leader is an American--the others are
strangers. They're coming--but far, oh, so far away!"
Gabriel fixed his eyes upon her, but did not speak. After a death-like
pause, she went on--
"The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the grass is springing where
they ride--but, oh, so far--too far away!"
"Do you know them?" asked Gabriel.
"No."
"Do they know us?"
"No."
"Why do they come, and how do they know where we are?" asked Gabriel.
"Their leader has seen us."
"Where?"
"In a dream."[A]
[Footnote A: I fear I must task the incredulous reader's further
patience by calling attention to what may perhaps prove the most literal
and thoroughly-attested fact of this otherwise fanciful chronicle. The
condition and situation of the ill-famed "Donner Party"--then an
unknown, unheralded cavalcade of emigrants--starving in an unfrequented
pass of the Sierras, was first made known to Captain Yount of Napa, _in
a dream_. The Spanish records of California show that the relief party
which succoured the survivors was projected upon this _spiritual_
information.]
Gabriel whistled and looked at the rag baby. He was willing to
recognise something abnormal, and perhaps even prophetic, in this insane
woman; but a coincident exaltation in a stranger who was not suffering
from the illusions produced by starvation was beyond his credulity.
Nevertheless, the instincts of good humour and hopefulness were
stronger, and he presently asked--
"How will they come?"
"Up through a beautiful valley and a broad shining river. Then they will
cross a mountain until they come to another beautiful valley with steep
sides, and a rushing river that runs so near us that I can almost hear
it now. Don't you see it? It is just beyond the snow peak there; a green
valley, with the rain falling upon it. Look! it is there."
She pointed directly north, toward the region of inhospitable snow.
"Could you get to it?" asked the practical Gabriel.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I must wait here for my baby. She is coming for us. She will find me
here."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
It was the last time that she uttered that well-worn sentence; for it
was only a little past midnight that her baby came to her--came to her
with a sudden light, that might have been invisible to Gabriel, but that
it was reflected in her own lack-lustre eyes--came to this poor
half-witted creature with such distinctness that she half rose,
stretched out her thin yearning arms, and received it--a corpse! Gabriel
placed the effigy in her arms and folded them over it. Then he ran
swiftly to the other hut. For some unexplained reason he did not get
further than the door. What he saw there he has never told; but when he
groped his fainting way back to his own hut again, his face was white
and bloodless, and his eyes wild and staring. Only one impulse
remained--to fly for ever from the cursed spot. He stopped only long
enough to snatch up the sobbing and frightened Olly, and then, with a
loud cry to God to help him--to help _them_--he dashed out, and was lost
in the darkness.
CHAPTER IV.
NATURE SHOWS THEM THE WAY.
It was a spur of the long grave-like ridge that lay to the north of the
cañon. Up its gaunt white flank two figures had been slowly crawling
since noon, until at sunset they at last stood upon its outer verge
outlined against the sky--Philip and Grace.
For all the fatigues of the journey, the want of nourishing food and the
haunting shadow of the suffering she had left, the face of Grace,
flushed with the dying sun, was very pretty. The boy's dress she had
borrowed was ill-fitting, and made her exquisite little figure still
more diminutive, but it could not entirely hide its graceful curves.
Here in this rosy light the swooning fringes of her dark eyes were no
longer hidden; the perfect oval of her face, even the few freckles on
her short upper lip, were visible to Philip. Partly as a physical
support, partly to reassure her, he put his arm tenderly around her
waist. Then he kissed her. It is possible that this last act was purely
gratuitous.
Howbeit Grace first asked, with the characteristic prudence of her sex,
the question she had already asked many days before that day, "Do you
love me, Philip?" And Philip, with the ready frankness of our sex on
such occasions, had invariably replied, "I do."
Nevertheless the young man was pre-occupied, anxious, and hungry. It
was the fourth day since they had left the hut. On the second day they
had found some pine cones with the nuts still intact and fresh beneath
the snow, and later a squirrel's hoard. On the third day Philip had
killed the proprietor and eaten him. The same evening Philip had espied
a duck winging his way up the cañon. Philip, strong in the belief that
some inland lake was the immediate object of its flight, had first
marked its course, and then brought it down with a long shot. Then
having altered their course in accordance with it suggestion, they ate
their guide next morning for breakfast.
Philip was also disappointed. The summit of the spur so laboriously
attained only showed him the same endless succession of white snow
billows stretching rigidly to the horizon's edge. There was no break--no
glimpse of watercourse or lake. There was nothing to indicate whence the
bird had come or the probable point it was endeavouring to reach. He was
beginning to consider the feasibility of again changing their course,
when an unlooked-for accident took that volition from his hands.
Grace had ventured out to the extreme limit of the rocky cliff, and with
straining eyes was trying to peer beyond the snow fields, when the
treacherous ledge on which she was standing began to give way. In an
instant Philip was at her side and had caught her hand, but at the same
moment a large rock of the ledge dropped from beneath her feet, and left
her with no support but his grasp. The sudden shock loosened also the
insecure granite on which Philip stood. Before he could gain secure
foothold it also trembled, tottered, slipped, and then fell, carrying
Philip and Grace with it. Luckily this immense mass of stone and ice got
fairly away before them, and ploughed down the steep bank of the cliff,
breaking off the projecting rocks and protuberances, and cutting a
clean, though almost perpendicular, path down the mountain side. Even
in falling Philip had presence of mind enough to forbear clutching at
the crumbling ledge, and so precipitating the rock that might crush
them. Before he lost his senses he remembered tightening his grip of
Grace's arm, and drawing her face and head forward to his breast, and
even in his unconsciousness it seemed that he instinctively guided her
into the smooth passage or "shoot" made by the plunging rock below them;
and even then he was half conscious of dashing into sudden material
darkness and out again into light, and of the crashing and crackling of
branches around him, and even the brushing of the stiff pine needles
against his face and limbs. Then he felt himself stopped, and then, and
then only, everything whirled confusedly by him, and his brain seemed to
partake of the motion, and then--the relief of utter blankness and
oblivion. When he regained his senses, it was with a burning heat in his
throat, and the sensation of strangling. When he opened his eyes he saw
Grace bending over him, pale and anxious, and chafing his hands and
temples with snow. There was a spot of blood upon her round cheek.
"You are hurt, Grace!" were the first words that Philip gasped.
"No!--dear, brave Philip--but only so thankful and happy for your
escape." Yet, at the same moment the colour faded from her cheek, and
even the sun-kissed line of her upper lip grew bloodless, as she leaned
back against a tree.
But Philip did not see her. His eyes were rapidly taking in his strange
surroundings. He was lying among the broken fragments of pine branches
and the débris of the cliff above. In his ears was the sound of hurrying
water, and before him, scarce a hundred feet, a rushing river! He looked
up; the red glow of sunset was streaming through the broken limbs and
shattered branches of the snow-thatched roof that he had broken through
in his descent. Here and there along the river the same light was
penetrating the interstices and openings of this strange vault that
arched above this sunless stream.
He knew now whence the duck had flown! He knew now why he had not seen
the watercourse before! He knew now where the birds and beasts had
betaken themselves--why the woods and cañons were trackless! Here was at
last the open road! He staggered to his feet with a cry of delight.
"Grace, we are saved."
Grace looked at him with eyes that perhaps spoke more eloquently of joy
at his recovery than of comprehension of his delight.
"Look, Grace! this is Nature's own road--only a lane, perhaps--but a
clue to our way out of this wilderness. As we descend the stream it will
open into a broader valley."
"I know it," she said, simply.
Philip looked at her inquiringly.
"When I dragged you out of the way of the falling rocks and snow above,
I had a glimpse of the valley you speak of. I saw it from there."
She pointed to a ledge of rock above the opening where the great stone
that had fallen had lodged.
"When you dragged me, my child?"
Grace smiled faintly.
"You don't know how strong I am," she said, and then proved it by
fainting dead away.
Philip started to his feet and ran to her side. Then he felt for the
precious flask that he had preserved so sacredly through all their
hardships, but it was gone. He glanced around him; it was lying on the
snow, empty! For the first time in their weary pilgrimage Philip uttered
a groan. At the sound Grace opened her sweet eyes. She saw her lover
with the empty flask in his hand, and smiled faintly.
"I poured it all down your throat, dear," she said. "You looked so
faint--I thought you were dying--forgive me!"
"But I was only stunned; and you, Grace, you"----
"Am better now," she said, as she strove to rise. But she uttered a weak
little cry and fell back again.
Philip did not hear her. He was already climbing the ledge she had
spoken of. When he returned his face was joyous.
"I see it, Grace; it is only a few miles away. It is still light, and we
shall camp there to-night."
"I am afraid--not--dear Philip," said Grace, doubtfully.
"Why not?" asked Philip, a little impatiently.
"Because--I--think--my leg is broken!"
"Grace!"
But she had fainted.
CHAPTER V.
OUT OF THE WOODS--INTO THE SHADOW.
Happily Grace was wrong. Her ankle was severely sprained, and she could
not stand. Philip tore up his shirt, and, with bandages dipped in snow
water, wrapped up the swollen limb. Then he knocked over a quail in the
bushes and another duck, and clearing away the brush for a camping spot,
built a fire, and tempted the young girl with a hot supper. The peril of
starvation passed, their greatest danger was over--a few days longer of
enforced rest and inactivity was the worst to be feared.
The air had grown singularly milder with the last few hours. At midnight
a damp breeze stirred the pine needles above their heads, and an
ominous muffled beating was heard upon the snow-packed vault. It was
rain.
"It is the reveille of spring!" whispered Philip.
But Grace was in no mood for poetry--even a lover's. She let her head
drop upon his shoulder, and then said--
"You must go on, dear, and leave me here."
"Grace!"
"Yes, Philip! I can live till you come back. I fear no danger now. I am
so much better off than _they_ are!"
A few tears dropped on his hand. Philip winced. Perhaps it was his
conscience; perhaps there was something in the girl's tone, perhaps
because she had once before spoken in the same way, but it jarred upon a
certain quality in his nature which he was pleased to call his "common
sense." Philip really believed himself a high-souled, thoughtless,
ardent, impetuous temperament, saved only from destruction by the
occasional dominance of this quality.
For a moment he did not speak. He thought how, at the risk of his own
safety, he had snatched this girl from terrible death; he thought how he
had guarded her through their perilous journey, taking all the burdens
upon himself; he thought how happy he had made her--how she had even
admitted her happiness to him; he thought of her present helplessness,
and how willing he was to delay the journey on her account; he dwelt
even upon a certain mysterious, ill-defined but blissful future with him
to which he was taking her; and yet here, at the moment of their
possible deliverance, she was fretting about two dying people, who,
without miraculous interference, would be dead before she could reach
them. It was part of Philip's equitable self-examination--a fact of
which he was very proud--that he always put himself in the position of
the person with whom he differed, and imagined how _he_ would act under
the like circumstances. Perhaps it is hardly necessary to say that
Philip always found that his conduct under those conditions would be
totally different. In the present instance, putting himself in Grace's
position, he felt that he would have abandoned all and everything for a
love and future like hers. That she did not was evidence of a moral
deficiency or a blood taint. Logic of this kind is easy and irrefutable.
It has been known to obtain even beyond the Sierras, and with people who
were not physically exhausted. After a pause he said to Grace, in a
changed voice--
"Let us talk plainly for a few moments, Grace, and understand each other
before we go forward or backward. It is five days since we left the hut;
were we even certain of finding our wandering way back again, we could
not reach them before another five days had elapsed; by that time all
will be over. They have either been saved or are beyond the reach of
help. This sounds harsh, Grace, but it is no harsher than the fact. Had
we stayed, we would, without helping them, have only shared their fate.
I might have been in your brother's place, you in your sister's. It is
our fortune, not our fault, that we are not dying with them. It has been
willed that you and I should be saved. It might have been willed that we
should have perished in our attempts to succour them, and that relief
which came to _them_ would have never reached _us_."
Grace was no logician, and could not help thinking that if Philip had
said this before, she would not have left the hut. But the masculine
reader will, I trust, at once detect the irrelevance of the feminine
suggestion, and observe that it did not refute Philip's argument. She
looked at him with a half frightened air. Perhaps it was the tears that
dimmed her eyes, but his few words seemed to have removed him to a great
distance, and for the first time a strange sense of loneliness came over
her. She longed to reach her yearning arms to him again, but with this
feeling came a sense of shame that she had not felt before.
Philip noticed her hesitation, and half interpreted it. He let her
passive head fall.
"Perhaps we had better wait until we are ourselves out of danger before
we talk of helping others," he said with something of his old
bitterness. "This accident may keep us here some days, and we know not
as yet where we are. Go to sleep now," he said more kindly, "and in the
morning we will see what can be done."
Grace sobbed herself to sleep! Poor, poor Grace! She had been looking
for this opportunity of speaking about herself--about their future. This
was to have been the beginning of her confidence about Dr. Devarges's
secret; she would have told him frankly all the doctor had said, even
his suspicions of Philip himself. And then Philip would have been sure
to have told her his plans, and they would have gone back with help, and
Philip would have been a hero whom Gabriel would have instantly
recognised as the proper husband for Grace, and they would have all been
very happy. And now they were all dead, and had died, perhaps, cursing
her, and--Philip--Philip had not kissed her good-night, and was sitting
gloomily under a tree!
The dim light of a leaden morning broke through the snow vault above
their heads. It was raining heavily, the river had risen, and was still
rising. It was filled with drift and branches, and snow and ice, the
waste and ware of many a mile. Occasionally a large uprooted tree with a
gaunt forked root like a mast sailed by. Suddenly Philip, who had been
sitting with his chin upon his hands, rose with a shout. Grace looked up
languidly. He pointed to a tree that, floating by, had struck the bank
where they sat, and then drifted broadside against it, where for a
moment it lay motionless.
"Grace," he said, with his old spirits, "Nature has taken us in hand
herself. If we are to be saved, it is by her methods. She brought us
here to the water's edge, and now she sends a boat to take us off again.
Come!"
Before Grace could reply, Philip had lifted her gaily in his arms, and
deposited her between two upright roots of the tree. Then he placed
beside her his rifle and provisions, and leaping himself on the bow of
this strange craft, shoved it off with a broken branch that he had
found. For a moment it still clung to the bank, and then suddenly
catching the impulse of the current, darted away like a living creature.
The river was very narrow and rapid where they had embarked, and for a
few moments it took all of Philip's energy and undivided attention to
keep the tree in the centre of the current. Grace sat silent, admiring
her lover, alert, forceful, and glowing with excitement. Presently
Philip called to her--
"Do you see that log? We are near a settlement."
A freshly-hewn log of pine was floating in the current beside them. A
ray of hope shot through Grace's sad fancies; if they were so near help,
might not it have already reached the sufferers? But she forbore to
speak to Philip again upon that subject, and in his new occupation he
seemed to have forgotten her. It was with a little thrill of joy that at
last she saw him turn, and balancing himself with his bough upon their
crank craft, walk down slowly toward her. When he reached her side he
sat down, and, taking her hand in his, for the first time since the
previous night, he said gently--
"Grace, my child, I have something to tell you."
Grace's little heart throbbed quickly; for a moment she did not dare to
lift her long lashes toward his. Without noticing her embarrassment he
went on--
"In a few hours we shall be no longer in the wilderness, but in the
world again--in a settlement perhaps, among men and--perhaps women.
Strangers certainly--not the relatives you have known, and who know
you--not the people with whom we have been familiar for so many weeks
and days--but people who know nothing of us, or our sufferings."
Grace looked at him, but did not speak.
"You understand, Grace, that, not knowing this, they might put their own
construction upon our flight.
"To speak plainly, my child, you are a young woman, and I am a young
man. Your beauty, dear Grace, offers an explanation of our companionship
that the world will accept more readily than any other, and the truth to
many would seem scarcely as natural. For this reason it must not be
told. I will go back alone with relief, and leave you here in some safe
hands until I return. But I leave you here not as Grace Conroy--you
shall take my own name!"
A hot flush mounted to Grace's throat and cheek, and for an instant,
with parted lips, she hung breathless upon his next word. He continued
quietly--
"You shall be my sister--Grace Ashley."
The blood fell from her cheek, her eyelids dropped, and she buried her
face in her hands. Philip waited patiently for her reply. When she
lifted her face again, it was quiet and calm--there was even a slight
flush of proud colour in her cheek as she met his gaze, and with the
faintest curl of her upper lip said--
"You are right!"
At the same moment there was a sudden breaking of light and warmth and
sunshine over their heads; the tree swiftly swung round a sharp curve in
the river, and then drifted slowly into a broad, overflowed valley,
sparkling with the emerald of gently sloping hillsides, and dazzling
with the glow of the noonday sun. And beyond, from a cluster of willows
scarcely a mile away, the smoke of a cabin chimney curled in the still
air.
CHAPTER VI.
FOOTPRINTS.
For two weeks an unclouded sun rose and set on the rigid outlines of
Monument Point. For two weeks there had been no apparent change in the
ghastly whiteness of the snow-flanked rocks; in the white billows that
rose rank on rank beyond, in the deathlike stillness that reigned above
and below. It was the first day of April; there was the mildness of
early spring in the air that blew over this gaunt waste, and yet awoke
no sound or motion. And yet a nearer approach showed that a slow
insidious change had been taking place. The white flanks of the mountain
were more hollow; the snow had shrunk visibly away in places, leaving
the grey rocks naked and protuberant; the rigid outlines were there, but
less full and rounded; the skeleton was beginning to show through the
wasting flesh; there were great patches of snow that had sloughed away,
leaving the gleaming granite bare below. It was the last change of the
Hippocratic face that Nature turned toward the spectator. And yet this
change had been noiseless--the solitude unbroken.
And then one day there suddenly drifted across the deathlike valley the
chime of jingling spurs and the sound of human voices. Down the long
defile a cavalcade of mounted men and pack mules made their way,
plunging through drifts and clattering over rocks. The unwonted sound
awoke the long slumbering echoes of the mountain, brought down small
avalanches from cliff and tree, and at last brought from some cavern of
the rocks to the surface of the snow a figure so wild, haggard,
dishevelled, and monstrous, that it was scarcely human. It crawled upon
the snow, dodging behind rocks with the timidity of a frightened animal,
and at last, squatting behind a tree, awaited in ambush the approach of
the party.
Two men rode ahead; one grave, preoccupied, and reticent. The other
alert, active, and voluble. At last the reticent man spoke, but slowly,
and as if recalling a memory rather than recording a present impression.
"They cannot be far away from us now. It was in some such spot that I
first saw them. The place is familiar."
"Heaven send that it may be!" said the other hastily, "for to tell you
the truth, I doubt if we will be able to keep the men together a day
longer in this crazy quest, unless we discover something."
"It was here," continued the other dreamily, not heeding his companion,
"that I saw the figures of a man and woman. If there is not a cairn of
stone somewhere about this spot, I shall believe my dream false, and
confess myself an old fool."
"Well--as I said before," rejoined the other, laughing, "anything--a
scrap of paper, an old blanket, or a broken waggon-tongue will do.
Columbus helped his course and kept up his crew on a fragment of
seaweed. But what are the men looking at? Great God! There _is_
something moving by yonder rock!"
By one common superstitious instinct the whole party had crowded
together--those who, a few moments before, had been loudest in their
scepticism, held their breath with awe, and trembled with excitement--as
the shambling figure that had watched them enter the cañon rose from its
lair, and taking upon itself a human semblance, with uncouth gestures
and a strange hoarse cry made towards them. It was Dumphy!
The leader was the first to recover himself. He advanced from the rest
and met Dumphy half-way.
"Who are you?"
"A man."
"What's the matter?"
"Starving."
"Where are the others?"
Dumphy cast a suspicious glance at him and said--
"Who?"
"The others. You are not alone?"
"Yes, I am!"
"How did you get here?"
"What's that to you? I'm here and starving. Gimme suthin' to eat and
drink."
He sank exhaustedly on all fours again.
There was a murmur of sympathy from the men.
"Give him suthin'. Don't you see he can't stand--much less talk? Where's
the doctor?"
And then the younger of the leaders thus adjured--"Leave him to me--he
wants my help just now more than yours."
He poured some brandy down his throat. Dumphy gasped, and then staggered
to his feet.
"What did you say your name was?" asked the young surgeon kindly.
"Jackson," said Dumphy, with a defiantly blank look.
"Where from?"
"Missouri."
"How did you get here?"
"Strayed from my party."
"And they are----"
"Gone on. Gimme suthin' to eat!"
"Take him back to camp and hand him over to Sanchez. He'll know what to
do," said the surgeon to one of the men. "Well, Blunt," he continued,
addressing the leader, "you're saved--but your nine men in buckram have
dwindled down to one, and not a very creditable specimen at that," he
said, as his eyes followed the retreating Dumphy.
"I wish it were all, doctor," said Blunt simply; "I would be willing to
go back now, but something tells me we have only begun. This one makes
everything else possible. What have you there?"
One of the men was approaching, holding a slip of paper with ragged
edges, as if torn from some position where it had been nailed.
"A notiss--from a tree. Me no sabe," said the ex-vaquero.
"Nor I," said Blunt, looking at it; "it seems to be in German. Call
Glohr."
A tall Swiss came forward. Blunt handed him the paper. The man examined
it.
"It is a direction to find property--important and valuable
property--buried."
"Where?"
"Under a cairn of stones."
The surgeon and Blunt exchanged glances.
"Lead us there!" said Blunt.
It was a muffled monotonous tramp of about an hour. At the end of that
time they reached a spur of the mountain around which the cañon turned
abruptly. Blunt uttered a cry. Before them was a ruin--a rude heap of
stones originally symmetrical and elevated, but now thrown down and
dismantled. The snow and earth were torn up around and beneath it. On
the snow lay some scattered papers, a portfolio of drawings of birds and
flowers: a glass case of insects broken and demolished, and the
scattered feathers of a few stuffed birds. At a little distance lay
what seemed to be a heap of ragged clothing. At the sight of it the
nearest horseman uttered a shout and leaped to the ground. It was Mrs.
Brackett, dead.
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS BEGIN TO FADE.
She had been dead about a week. The features and clothing were scarcely
recognizable; the limbs were drawn up convulsively. The young surgeon
bent over her attentively.
"Starved to death?" said Blunt interrogatively.
The surgeon did not reply, but rose and examined the scattered
specimens. One of them he picked up and placed first to his nose and
then to his lips. After a pause he replied quietly--
"No. Poisoned."
The men fell back from the body.
"Accidentally, I think," continued the surgeon coolly; "the poor
creature has been driven by starvation to attack the specimens. They
have been covered with a strong solution of arsenic to preserve them
from the ravages of insects, and this starving woman has been the first
to fall a victim to the collector's caution."
There was a general movement of horror and indignation among the men.
"Shoost to keep dem birds," said the irate Swiss. "Killing women to save
his cussed game," said another. The surgeon smiled. It was an
inauspicious moment for Dr. Devarges to have introduced himself in
person.
"If this enthusiastic naturalist is still living, I hope he'll keep away
from the men for some hours," said the surgeon to Blunt, privately.
"Who is he?" asked the other.
"A foreigner--a _savant_ of some note, I should say, in his own country.
I think I have heard the name before--'Devarges,'" replied the surgeon,
looking over some papers that he had picked up. "He speaks of some
surprising discoveries he has made, and evidently valued his collection
very highly."
"Are they worth re-collecting and preserving?" asked Blunt.
"Not now!" said the surgeon. "Every moment is precious. Humanity first,
science afterward," he added lightly, and they rode on.
And so the papers and collections preserved with such care, the evidence
of many months of patient study, privation, and hardship, the records of
triumph and discovery were left lying upon the snow. The wind came down
the flanks of the mountain and tossed them hither and thither as if in
scorn, and the sun, already fervid, heating the metallic surfaces of the
box and portfolio, sank them deeper in the snow, as if to bury them from
the sight for ever.
By skirting the edge of the valley where the snow had fallen away from
the mountain-side, they reached in a few hours the blazed tree at the
entrance of the fateful cañon. The placard was still there, but the
wooden hand that once pointed in the direction of the buried huts had,
through some mischance of wind or weather, dropped slightly, and was
ominously pointing to the snow below. This was still so deep in drifts
that the party were obliged to leave their horses and enter the cañon
a-foot. Almost unconsciously, this was done in perfect silence, walking
in single file, occasionally climbing up the sides of the cañon where
the rocks offered a better foothold than the damp snow, until they
reached a wooden chimney and part of a roof that now reared itself above
the snow. Here they paused and looked at each other. The leader
approached the chimney, and leaning over it called within.
There was no response. Presently, however, the cañon took up the shout
and repeated it, and then there was a silence broken only by the falling
of an icicle from a rock, or a snow slide from the hill above. Then all
was quiet again, until Blunt, after a moment's hesitation, walked around
to the opening and descended into the hut. He had scarcely disappeared,
as it seemed, before he returned, looking very white and grave, and
beckoned to the surgeon. He instantly followed. After a little, the rest
of the party, one after another, went down. They stayed some time, and
then came slowly to the surface bearing three dead bodies. They returned
again quickly, and then brought up the _dissevered_ members of a fourth.
This done they looked at each other in silence.
"There should be another cabin here," said Blunt after a pause.
"Here it is!" said one of the men, pointing to the chimney of the second
hut.
There was no preliminary "hallo!" or hesitation now. The worst was
known. They all passed rapidly to the opening, and disappeared within.
When they returned to the surface they huddled together--a whispering
but excited group. They were so much preoccupied that they did not see
that their party was suddenly increased by the presence of a stranger.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FOOTPRINTS GROW FAINTER.
It was Philip Ashley! Philip Ashley--faded, travel-worn, hollow-eyed,
but nervously energetic and eager. Philip, who four days before had left
Grace the guest of a hospitable trapper's half-breed family in the
California Valley. Philip--gloomy, discontented, hateful of the quest he
had undertaken, but still fulfilling his promise to Grace and the savage
dictates of his own conscience. It was Philip Ashley, who now standing
beside the hut, turned half-cynically, half-indifferently toward the
party.
The surgeon was first to discover him. He darted forward with a cry of
recognition, "Poinsett! Arthur!--what are you doing here?"
Ashley's face flushed crimson at the sight of the stranger. "Hush!" he
said almost involuntarily. He glanced rapidly around the group, and then
in some embarrassment replied with awkward literalness, "I left my horse
with the others at the entrance of the cañon."
"I see," said the surgeon briskly, "you have come with relief like
ourselves; but you are too late! too late!"
"Too late!" echoed Ashley.
"Yes, they are all dead or gone!"
A singular expression crossed Ashley's face. It was unnoticed by the
surgeon, who was whispering to Blunt. Presently he came forward.
"Captain Blunt, this is Lieutenant Poinsett of the Fifth Infantry, an
old messmate mine, whom I have not met before for two years. He is here,
like ourselves, on an errand of mercy. It is like him!"
The unmistakable air of high breeding and intelligence which
distinguished Philip always, and the cordial endorsement of the young
surgeon, prepossessed the party instantly in his favour. With that
recognition, something of his singular embarrassment dropped away.
"Who are those people?" he ventured at last to say.
"Their names are on this paper, which we found nailed to a tree. Of
course, with no survivor present, we are unable to identify them all.
The hut occupied by Dr. Devarges, whose body, buried in the snow, we
have identified by his clothing, and the young girl Grace Conroy and her
child-sister, are the only ones we are positive about."
Philip looked at the doctor.
"How have you identified the young girl?"
"By her clothing, which was marked."
Philip remembered that Grace had changed her clothes for the suit of a
younger brother who was dead.
"Only by that?" he asked.
"No. Dr. Devarges in his papers gives the names of the occupants of the
hut. We have accounted for all but her brother, and a fellow by the name
of Ashley."
"How do you account for them?" asked Philip with a dark face.
"Ran away! What can you expect from that class of people?" said the
surgeon with a contemptuous shrug.
"What class?" asked Philip almost savagely.
"My dear boy," said the surgeon, "you know them as well as I. Didn't
they always pass the Fort where we were stationed? Didn't they beg what
they could, and steal what they otherwise couldn't get, and then report
to Washington the incompetency of the military? Weren't they always
getting up rows with the Indians and then sneaking away to let us settle
the bill? Don't you remember them--the men gaunt, sickly, vulgar,
low-toned; the women dirty, snuffy, prematurely old and prematurely
prolific?"
Philip tried to combat this picture with his recollection of Grace's
youthful features, but somehow failed. Within the last half-hour his
instinctive fastidiousness had increased a hundredfold. He looked at the
doctor, and said "Yes."
"Of course," said the surgeon. "It was the old lot. What could you
expect? People who could be strong only in proportion to their physical
strength, and losing everything with the loss of that? There have been
selfishness, cruelty--God knows--perhaps murder done here!"
"Yes, yes," said Philip, hastily; "but you were speaking of this girl,
Grace Conroy; what do you know of her?"
"Nothing, except that she was found lying there dead with her name on
her clothes and her sister's blanket in her arms, as if the wretches had
stolen the dying child from the dead girl's arms. But you, Arthur, how
chanced you to be here in this vicinity? Are you stationed here?"
"No, I have resigned from the army."
"Good! and you are here"----
"Alone!"
"Come, we will talk this over as we return. You will help me make out my
report. This you know, is an official inquiry, based upon the alleged
clairvoyant quality of our friend Blunt. I must say we have established
that fact, if we have been able to do nothing more."
The surgeon then lightly sketched an account of the expedition, from its
inception in a dream of Blunt (who was distinctly impressed with the
fact that a number of emigrants were perishing from hunger in the
Sierras) to his meeting with Philip, with such deftness of cynical
humour and playful satire--qualities that had lightened the weariness of
the mess-table of Fort Bobadil--that the young men were both presently
laughing. Two or three of the party who had been engaged in laying out
the unburied bodies, and talking in whispers, hearing these fine
gentlemen make light of the calamity in well-chosen epithets, were
somewhat ashamed of their own awe, and less elegantly, and I fear less
grammatically, began to be jocose too. Whereat the fastidious Philip
frowned, the surgeon laughed, and the two friends returned to the
entrance of the cañon, and thence rode out of the valley together.
Philip's reticence regarding his own immediate past was too
characteristic to excite any suspicion or surprise in the mind of his
friend. In truth, the doctor was too well pleased with his presence, and
the undoubted support which he should have in Philip's sympathetic
tastes and congenial habits, to think of much else. He was proud of his
friend--proud of the impression he had made among the rude unlettered
men with whom he was forced by the conditions of frontier democracy to
associate on terms of equality. And Philip, though young, was accustomed
to have his friends proud of him. Indeed, he always felt some
complacency with himself that he seldom took advantage of this fact.
Satisfied that he might have confided to the doctor the truth of his
connection with the ill-fated party and his flight with Grace, and that
the doctor would probably have regarded him as a hero, he felt less
compunction at his suppression of the fact.
Their way lay by Monument Point and the dismantled cairn. Philip had
already passed it on his way to the cañon, and had felt a thankfulness
for the unexpected tragedy that had, as he believed, conscientiously
relieved him of a duty to the departed naturalist, yet he could not
forego a question.
"Is there anything among these papers and collections worth our
preserving?" he asked the surgeon.
The doctor, who had not for many months had an opportunity to air his
general scepticism, was nothing if not derogatory.
"No," he answered, shortly. "If there were any way that we might restore
them to the living Dr. Devarges, they might minister to his vanity, and
please the poor fellow. I see nothing in them that should make them
worthy to survive him."
The tone was so like Dr. Devarges' own manner, as Philip remembered it,
that he smiled grimly and felt relieved. When they reached the spot
Nature seemed to have already taken the same cynical view; the metallic
case was already deeply sunken in the snow, the wind had scattered the
papers far and wide, and even the cairn itself had tumbled into a
shapeless, meaningless ruin.
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS ARE LOST FOR EVER.
A fervid May sun had been baking the adobe walls of the Presidio of San
Ramon, firing the red tiles, scorching the black courtyard, and driving
the mules and vaqueros of a train that had just arrived into the shade
of the long galleries of the quadrangle, when the _Comandante_, who was
taking his noonday _siesta_ in a low, studded chamber beside the
guard-room, was gently awakened by his secretary. For thirty years the
noonday slumbers of the Commander had never been broken; his first
thought was the heathen!--his first impulse to reach for his trusty
Toledo. But, as it so happened, the cook had borrowed it that morning to
rake _tortillas_ from the Presidio oven, and Don Juan Salvatierra
contented himself with sternly demanding the reason for this unwonted
intrusion.
"A señorita--an American--desires an immediate audience."
Don Juan removed the black silk handkerchief which he had tied round his
grizzled brows, and sat up. Before he could assume a more formal
attitude, the door was timidly opened, and a young girl entered. For all
the disfigurement of scant, coarse, ill-fitting clothing, or the
hollowness of her sweet eyes, and even the tears that dimmed their long
lashes; for all the sorrow that had pinched her young cheek and
straightened the corners of her childlike mouth, she was still so fair,
so frank, so youthful, so innocent and helpless, that the _Comandante_
stood erect, and then bent forward in a salutation that almost swept the
floor. Apparently the prepossession was mutual. The young girl took a
quick survey of the gaunt but gentlemanlike figure before her, cast a
rapid glance at the serious but kindly eyes that shone above the
Commander's iron-grey mustachios, dropped her hesitating, timid manner,
and, with an impulsive gesture and a little cry, ran forward and fell
upon her knees at his feet. The Commander would have raised her gently,
but she restrained his hand.
"No, no, listen! I am only a poor, poor girl, without friends or home. A
month ago, I left my family starving in the mountains, and came away to
get them help. My brother came with me. God was good to us, Señor, and
after a weary tramp of many days we found a trapper's hut, and food and
shelter. Philip, my brother, went back alone to succour them. He has not
returned. Oh, sir, he may be dead; they all may be dead--God only knows!
It is three weeks ago since he left me; three weeks! It is a long time
to be alone, Señor, a stranger in a strange land. The trapper was kind,
and sent me here to you for assistance. You will help me? I know you
will. You will find them, my friends, my little sister, my brother!"
The Commander waited until she had finished, and then gently lifted her
to a seat by his side. Then he turned to his secretary, who, with a few
hurried words in Spanish, answered the mute inquiry of the Commander's
eyes. The young girl felt a thrill of disappointment as she saw that her
personal appeal had been lost and unintelligible; it was with a slight
touch of defiance that was new to her nature that she turned to the
secretary who advanced as interpreter.
"You are an American?"
"Yes," said the girl, curtly, who had taken one of the strange, swift,
instinctive dislikes of her sex to the man.
"How many years?"
"Fifteen."
The Commander, almost unconsciously, laid his brown hand on her
clustering curls.
"Name?"
She hesitated and looked at the Commander.
"Grace," she said.
Then she hesitated; and, with a defiant glance at the secretary, added--
"Grace Ashley!"
"Give to me the names of some of your company, Mees Graziashly."
Grace hesitated.
"Philip Ashley, Gabriel Conroy, Peter Dumphy, Mrs. Jane Dumphy," she
said at last.
The secretary opened a desk, took out a printed document, unfolded it,
and glanced over its contents. Presently he handed it to the Commander
with the comment "_Bueno._" The Commander said "_Bueno_" also, and
glanced kindly and reassuringly at Grace.
"An expedition from the upper Presidio has found traces of a party of
Americans in the Sierra," said the secretary monotonously. "There are
names like these."
"It is the same--it is our party!" said Grace, joyously.
"You say so?" said the secretary, cautiously.
"Yes," said Grace, defiantly.
The secretary glanced at the paper again, and then said, looking at
Grace intently--
"There is no name of Mees Graziashly."
The hot blood suddenly dyed the cheek of Grace and her eyelids dropped.
She raised her eyes imploringly to the Commander. If she could have
reached him directly, she would have thrown herself at his feet and
confessed her innocent deceit, but she shrank from a confidence that
first filtered through the consciousness of the secretary. So she began
to fence feebly with the issue.
"It is a mistake," she said. "But the name of Philip, my brother, is
there?"
"The name of Philip Ashley is here," said the secretary, grimly.
"And he is alive and safe!" cried Grace, forgetting in her relief and
joy her previous shame and mortification.
"He is not found," said the secretary.
"Not found?" said Grace, with widely opened eyes.
"He is not there."
"No, of course," said Grace, with a nervous hysterical laugh; "he was
with me; but he came back--he returned."
"On the 30th of April there is no record of the finding of Philip
Ashley."
Grace groaned and clasped her hands. In her greater anxiety now, all
lesser fears were forgotten. She turned and threw herself before the
Commander.
"Oh, forgive me, Señor, but I swear to you I meant no harm! Philip is
not my brother, but a friend, so kind, so good. He asked me to take his
name, poor boy, God knows if he will ever claim it again, and I did. My
name is not Ashley. I know not what is in that paper, but it must tell
of my brother, Gabriel, my sister, of all! O, Señor, are they living or
dead? Answer me you must--for--I am--I am Grace Conroy!"
The secretary had refolded the paper. He opened it again, glanced over
it, fixed his eyes upon Grace, and, pointing to a paragraph, handed it
to the Commander. The two men exchanged glances, the Commander coughed,
rose, and averted his face from the beseeching eyes of Grace. A sudden
death-like chill ran through her limbs as, at a word from the Commander,
the secretary rose and placed the paper in her hands.
Grace took it with trembling fingers. It seemed to be a proclamation in
Spanish.
"I cannot read it," she said, stamping her little foot with passionate
vehemence. "Tell me what it says."
At a sign from the Commander, the secretary opened the paper and arose.
The Commander, with his face averted, looked through the open window.
The light streaming through its deep, tunnel-like embrasure, fell upon
the central figure of Grace, with her shapely head slightly bent
forward, her lips apart, and her eager, passionate eyes fixed upon the
Commander. The secretary cleared his throat in a perfunctory manner;
and, with the conscious pride of an irreproachable linguist, began--
"NOTICE.
"TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE COMANDANTE OF THE PRESIDIO OF
SAN FELIPE.
"I have the honour to report that the expedition sent out to
relieve certain distressed emigrants in the fastnesses of the
Sierra Nevadas, said expedition being sent on the information
of Don José Bluent of San Geronimo, found in a cañon east of
the Canada del Diablo the evidences of the recent existence of
such emigrants buried in the snow, and the melancholy and
deeply-to-be-deplored record of their sufferings, abandonment,
and death. A written record preserved by these miserable and
most infelicitous ones gives the names and history of their
organisation, known as 'Captain Conroy's Party,' a copy of
which is annexed below.
"The remains of five of these unfortunates were recovered from
the snow, but it was impossible to identify but two, who were
buried with sacred and reverential rites.
"Our soldiers behaved with that gallantry, coolness,
patriotism, inflexible hardihood, and high-principled devotion
which ever animate the swelling heart of the Mexican warrior.
Nor can too much praise be given to the voluntary efforts of
one Don Arthur Poinsett, late Lieutenant of the Army of the
United States of America, who, though himself a voyager and a
stranger, assisted our commander in the efforts of humanity.
"The wretched dead appeared to have expired from hunger,
although one was evidently a victim"----
The tongue of the translator hesitated a moment, and then with an air of
proud superiority to the difficulties of the English language, he
resumed--
"A victim to fly poison. It is to be regretted that among the
victims was the famous Doctor Paul Devarges, a Natural, and
collector of the stuffed Bird and Beast, a name most
illustrious in science."
The secretary paused, his voice dropped its pretentious pitch, he lifted
his eyes from the paper, and fixing them on Grace, repeated,
deliberately--
"The bodies who were identified were those of Paul Devarges and
Grace Conroy."
"Oh, no! no!" said Grace, clasping her hands, wildly; "it is a mistake!
You are trying to frighten me, a poor, helpless, friendless girl! You
are punishing me, gentlemen, because you know I have done wrong, because
you think I have lied! Oh, have pity, gentlemen. My God--save
me--Philip!"
And with a loud, despairing cry, she rose to her feet, caught at the
clustering tendrils of her hair, raised her little hands, palms upward,
high in the air, and then sank perpendicularly, as if crushed and beaten
flat, a pale and senseless heap upon the floor.
The Commander stooped over the prostrate girl. "Send Manuela here," he
said quickly, waving aside the proffered aid of the secretary, with an
impatient gesture quite unlike his usual gravity, as he lifted the
unconscious Grace in his arms.
An Indian waiting-woman hurriedly appeared, and assisted the Commander
to lay the fainting girl upon a couch.
"Poor child!" said the Commander, as Manuela, bending over Grace,
unloosed her garments with sympathetic feminine hands. "Poor little one,
and without a father!"
"Poor woman!" said Manuela to herself, half aloud; "and without a
husband."
BOOK II.
_AFTER FIVE YEARS._
CHAPTER I.
ONE HORSE GULCH.
It was a season of unexampled prosperity in One Horse Gulch. Even the
despondent original locator, who, in a fit of depressed alcoholism, had
given it that infelicitous title, would have admitted its injustice, but
that he fell a victim to the "craftily qualified" cups of San Francisco
long before the Gulch had become prosperous. "Hed Jim stuck to straight
whisky he might hev got his pile outer the very ledge whar his cabin
stood," said a local critic. But Jim did not; after taking a thousand
dollars from his claim, he had flown to San Franciscos, where,
gorgeously arrayed, he had flitted from champagne to cognac, and from
gin to lager beer, until he brought his gilded and ephemeral existence
to a close in the country hospital.
Howbeit, One Horse Gulch survived not only its godfather, but the
baleful promise of its unhallowed christening. It had its Hotel and its
Temperance House, its Express office, its saloons, its two squares of
low wooden buildings in the main street, its clustering nests of cabins
on the hill-sides, its freshly-hewn stumps, and its lately-cleared lots.
Young in years, it still had its memories, experiences and antiquities.
The first tent pitched by Jim White was still standing, the bullet holes
were yet to be seen in the shutters of the Cachucha saloon, where the
great fight took place between Boston Joe, Harry Worth, and Thompson of
Angel's; from the upper loft of Watson's "Emporium" a beam still
projected from which a year ago a noted citizen had been suspended,
after an informal inquiry into the ownership of some mules that he was
found possessed of. Near it was a small unpretentious square shed, where
the famous caucus had met that had selected the delegates who chose the
celebrated and Honourable Blank to represent California in the councils
of the nation.
It was raining. Not in the usual direct, honest, perpendicular fashion
of that mountain region, but only suggestively, and in a vague,
uncertain sort of way, as if it might at any time prove to be fog or
mist, and any money wagered upon it would be hazardous. It was raining
as much from below as above, and the lower limbs of the loungers who
gathered around the square box stove that stood in Briggs's warehouse,
exhaled a cloud of steam. The loungers in Briggs's were those who from
deficiency of taste or the requisite capital avoided the gambling and
drinking saloons, and quietly appropriated biscuits from the convenient
barrel of the generous Briggs, or filled their pipes from his open
tobacco canisters, with the general suggestion in their manner that
their company fully compensated for any waste of his material.
They had been smoking silently--a silence only broken by the occasional
hiss of expectoration against the hot stove, when the door of a back
room opened softly, and Gabriel Conroy entered.
"How is he gettin' on, Gabe?" asked one of the loungers.
"So, so," said Gabriel. "You'll want to shift those bandages again," he
said, turning to Briggs, "afore the doctor comes. I'd come back in an
hour, but I've got to drop in and see how Steve's gettin' on, and it's a
matter of two miles from home."
"But he says he won't let anybody tech him but you," said Mr. Briggs.
"I know he _says_ so," said Gabriel, soothingly; "but he'll get over
that. That's what Stimson sed when he was took worse, but he got over
that, and I never got to see him except in time to lay him out."
The justice of this was admitted even by Briggs, although evidently
disappointed. Gabriel was walking to the door, when another voice from
the stove stopped him.
"Oh, Gabe! you mind that emigrant family with the sick baby camped down
the gulch! Well, the baby up and died last night."
"I want to know," said Gabriel, with thoughtful gravity.
"Yes, and that woman's in a heap of trouble. Couldn't you kinder drop in
in passing and look after things?"
"I will," said Gabriel thoughtfully.
"I thought you'd like to know it, and I thought she'd like me to tell
you," said the speaker, settling himself back again over the stove with
the air of a man who had just fulfilled, at great personal sacrifice and
labour, a work of supererogation.
"You're always thoughtful of other folks, Johnson," said Briggs,
admiringly.
"Well, yes," said Johnson, with a modest serenity; "I allers allow that
men in Californy ought to think of others besides themselves. A little
keer and a little _sabe_ on my part, and there's that family in the
gulch made comfortable with Gabe around 'em."
Meanwhile this homely inciter of the unselfish virtues of One Horse
Gulch had passed out into the rain and darkness. So conscientiously did
he fulfil his various obligations, that it was nearly one o'clock before
he reached his rude hut on the hill-side, a rough cabin of pine logs, so
unpretentious and wild in exterior as to be but a slight improvement on
nature. The vines clambered unrestrainedly over the bark-thatched roof;
the birds occupied the crevices of the walls, the squirrel ate his
acorns on the ridge pole without fear and without reproach.
Softly drawing the wooden peg that served as a bolt, Gabriel entered
with that noiselessness and caution that were habitual to him. Lighting
a candle by the embers of a dying fire, he carefully looked around him.
The cabin was divided into two compartments by the aid of a canvas
stretched between the walls, with a flap for the doorway. On a pine
table lay several garments apparently belonging to a girl of seven or
eight--a frock grievously rent and torn, a frayed petticoat of white
flannel already patched with material taken from a red shirt, and a pair
of stockings so excessively and sincerely darned, as to have lost nearly
all of their original fabric in repeated bits of relief that covered
almost the entire structure. Gabriel looked at these articles ruefully,
and, slowly picking them up, examined each with the greatest gravity and
concern. Then he took off his coat and boots, and having in this way
settled himself into an easy dishabille, he took a box from the shelf,
and proceeded to lay out thread and needles, when he was interrupted by
a child's voice from behind the canvas screen.
"Is that you, Gabe?"--"Yes."
"Oh, Gabe, I got tired and went to bed."
"I see you did," said Gabriel drily, picking up a needle and thread that
had apparently been abandoned after a slight excursion into the
neighbourhood of a rent and left hopelessly sticking in the petticoat.
"Yes, Gabe; they're so awfully old!"
"Old!" repeated Gabe, reproachfully. "Old! Lettin' on a little wear and
tear, they're as good as they ever were. That petticoat is stronger,"
said Gabriel, holding up the garment and eyeing the patches with a
slight glow of artistic pride--"stronger, Olly, than the first day you
put it on."
"But that's five years ago, Gabe."
"Well," said Gabriel, turning round and addressing himself impatiently
to the screen, "wot if it is?"
"And I've growed."
"Growed!" said Gabriel, scornfully. "And haven't I let out the tucks,
and didn't I put three fingers of the best sacking around the waist?
You'll just ruin me in clothes."
Olly laughed from behind the screen. Finding, however, no response from
the grim worker, presently there appeared a curly head at the flap, and
then a slim little girl, in the scantiest of nightgowns, ran, and began
to nestle at his side, and to endeavour to enwrap herself in his
waistcoat.
"Oh, go 'way!" said Gabriel, with a severe voice and the most shameless
signs of relenting in his face. "Go away! What do you care? Here I might
slave myself to death to dress you in silks and satins, and you'd dip
into the first ditch or waltz through the first underbrush that you kem
across. You haven't got no _sabe_ in dress, Olly. It ain't ten days ago
as I iron-bound and copper-fastened that dress, so to speak, and look at
it now! Olly, look at it now!" And he held it up indignantly before the
maiden.
Olly placed the top of her head against the breast of her brother as a
_point d'appui_, and began to revolve around him as if she wished to
bore a way into his inmost feelings.
"Oh, you ain't mad, Gabe!" she said, leaping first over one knee and
then over the other without lifting her head. "You ain't mad!"
Gabriel did not deign to reply, but continued mending the frayed
petticoat in dignified silence.
"Who did you see down town?" said Olly, not at all rebuffed.
"No one," said Gabriel, shortly.
"You did! You smell of linnyments and peppermint," said Olly, with a
positive shake of the head. "You've been to Briggs's and the new family
up the gulch."
"Yes," said Gabriel, "that Mexican's legs is better, but the baby's
dead. Jest remind me, to-morrow, to look through mother's things for
suthin' for that poor woman."
"Gabe, do you know what Mrs. Markle says of you?" said Olly, suddenly
raising her head.
"No," replied Gabriel, with an affectation of indifference that, like
all his affectations, was a perfect failure.
"She says," said Olly, "that you want to be looked after yourself more'n
all these people. She says you're just throwing yourself away on other
folks. She says I ought to have a woman to look after me."
Gabriel stopped his work, laid down the petticoat, and taking the curly
head of Olly between his knees, with one hand beneath her chin and the
other on the top of her head, turned her mischievous face towards his.
"Olly," he said, seriously, "when I got you outer the snow at Starvation
Camp; when I toted you on my back for miles till we got into the valley;
when we lay by thar for two weeks, and me a felling trees and picking up
provisions here and thar, in the wood or the river, wharever thar was
bird or fish, I reckon you got along as well--I won't say better--ez if
you had a woman to look arter you. When at last we kem here to this
camp, and I built this yer house, I don't think any woman could hev done
better. If they could, I'm wrong, and Mrs. Markle's right."
Olly began to be uncomfortable. Then the quick instincts of her sex came
to her relief, and she archly assumed the aggressive.
"I think Mrs. Markle likes you, Gabe."
Gabriel looked down at the little figure in alarm. There are some
subjects whereof the youngest of womankind has an instinctive knowledge
that makes the wisest of us tremble.
"Go to bed, Olly," said the cowardly Gabriel.
But Olly wanted to sit up, so she changed the subject.
"The Mexican you're tendin' isn't a Mexican, he's a Chileno; Mrs. Markle
says so."
"Maybe; it's all the same. _I_ call him a Mexican. He talks too
straight, anyway," said Gabriel, indifferently.
"Did he ask you any more questions about--about old times?" continued
the girl.
"Yes; he wanted to know everything that happened in Starvation Camp. He
was rek'larly took with poor Gracie; asked a heap o' questions about
her--how she acted, and seemed to feel as bad as we did about never
hearing anything from her. I never met a man, Olly, afore, as seemed to
take such an interest in other folks' sorrers as he did. You'd have
tho't he'd been one of the party. And he made me tell him all about Dr.
Devarges."
"And Philip?" queried Olly.
"No," said Gabriel, somewhat curtly.
"Gabriel," said Olly, sullenly, "I wish you didn't talk so to people
about those days."
"Why?" asked Gabriel, wonderingly.
"Because it ain't good to talk about. Gabriel dear," she continued, with
a slight quivering of the upper lip, "sometimes I think the people round
yer look upon us sorter queer. That little boy that came here with the
emigrant family wouldn't play with me, and Mrs. Markle's little girl
said that we did dreadful things up there in the snow. He said I was a
cannon-ball."
"A what?" asked Gabriel.
"A cannon-ball! He said that you and I"----
"Hush," interrupted Gabriel, sternly, as an angry flush came into his
sunburnt cheek, "I'll jest bust that boy if I see him round yer agin."
"But, Gabriel," persisted Olly, "nobody"----
"Will you go to bed, Olly, and not catch your death yer on this cold
floor asking ornery and perfectly ridickulus questions?" said Gabriel,
briskly, lifting her to her feet. "Thet Markle girl ain't got no sense
anyway--she's allers leading you round in ditches, ruinin' your best
clothes, and keepin' me up half the night mendin' on 'em."
Thus admonished, Olly retreated behind the canvas screen, and Gabriel
resumed his needle and thread. But the thread became entangled, and was
often snappishly broken, and Gabriel sewed imaginary, vindictive
stitches in the imaginary calves of an imaginary youthful emigrant,
until Olly's voice again broke the silence.
"Oh, Gabe!"
"Yes," said Gabriel, putting down his work despairingly.
"Do you think--that Philip--ate Grace?"
Gabriel rose swiftly, and disappeared behind the screen. As he did so,
the door softly opened, and a man stepped into the cabin. The new-comer
cast a rapid glance around the dimly-lighted room, and then remained
motionless in the doorway. From behind the screen came the sound of
voices. The stranger hesitated, and then uttered a slight cough.
In an instant Gabriel reappeared. The look of angry concern at the
intrusion turned to one of absolute stupefaction as he examined the
stranger more attentively. The new-comer smiled faintly, yet politely,
and then, with a slight halt in his step, moved towards a chair, into
which he dropped with a deprecating gesture.
"I shall sit--and you shall pardon me. You have surprise! Yes? Five, six
hour ago you leave me very sick on a bed--where you are so kind--so
good. Yes? Ah? You see me here now, and you say crazy! Mad!"
He raised his right hand with the fingers upward, twirled them to
signify Gabriel's supposed idea of a whirling brain, and smiled again.
"Listen. Comes to me an hour ago a message most important. Most
necessary it is I go to-night--now, to Marysville. You see. Yes? I rise
and dress myself. Ha! I have great strength for the effort. I am better.
But I say to myself, 'Victor, you shall first pay your respects to the
good Pike who have been so kind, so good. You shall press the hand of
the noble grand miner who have recover you. _Bueno_, I am here!"
He extended a thin, nervous brown hand, and for the first time since his
entrance concentrated his keen black eyes, which had roved over the
apartment and taken in its minutest details, upon his host. Gabriel,
lost in bewilderment, could only gasp--"But you ain't well enough, you
know. You can't walk yet. You'll kill yourself!"
The stranger smiled.
"Yes?--you think--you think? Look now! Waits me, outside, the horse of
the livery-stable man. How many miles you think to the stage town?
Fifteen." (He emphasized them with his five uplifted fingers.) "It is
nothing. Two hour comes the stage and I am there. Ha!"
Even as he spoke, with a gesture, as if brushing away all difficulties,
his keen eyes were resting upon a little shelf above the chimney,
whereon stood an old-fashioned daguerreotype case open. He rose, and,
with a slight halting step and an expression of pain, limped across the
room to the shelf, and took up the daguerreotype.
"What have we?" he asked.
"It is Gracie," said Gabriel, brightening up. "Taken the day we started
from St. Jo."
"How long?"
"Six years ago. She was fourteen then," said Gabriel, taking the case in
his hand and brushing the glass fondly with his palm. "Thar warn't no
puttier gal in all Missouri," he added, with fraternal pride, looking
down upon the picture with moistened eyes. "Eh--what did you say?"
The stranger had uttered a few words hastily in a foreign tongue. But
they were apparently complimentary, for when Gabriel looked up at him
with an inquiring glance, he was smiling and saying, "Beautiful!
Angelic! Very pretty!" with eyes still fixed upon the picture. "And it
is like--ah, I see the brother's face, too," he said, gravely, comparing
Gabriel's face with the picture. Gabriel looked pleased. Any nature less
simple than his would have detected the polite fiction. In the square,
honest face of the brother there was not the faintest suggestion of the
delicate, girlish, poetical oval before him.
"It is precious," said the stranger: "and it is all, ha?"
"All?" echoed Gabriel, inquiringly.
"You have nothing more?"
"No."
"A line of her writing, a letter, her private papers would be a
treasure, eh?"
"She left nothing," said Gabriel, simply, "but her clothes. You know she
put on a boy's suit--Johnny's clothes--when she left. Thet's how it
allus puzzles me thet they knew _who_ she was, when they came across the
poor child dead."
The stranger did not speak, and Gabriel went on--
"It was nigh on a month afore I got back. When I did, the snow was gone,
and there warn't no track or trace of anybody. Then I heerd the story I
told ye--thet a relief party had found 'em all dead--and thet among the
dead was Grace. How that poor child ever got back thar alone (for thar
warn't no trace or mention of the man she went away with) is what gets
me. And that there's my trouble, Mr. Ramirez! To think of thet pooty
darlin' climbing back to the old nest, and finding no one thar! To think
of her coming back, as she allowed, to Olly and me, and findin' all her
own blood gone, is suthin' thet, at times, drives me almost mad. She
didn't die of starvation; she didn't die of cold. Her heart was broke,
Mr. Ramirez; her little heart was broke!"
The stranger looked at him curiously, but did not speak. After a
moment's pause, he lifted his bowed head from his hands, wiped his eyes
with Olly's flannel petticoat, and went on--
"For more than a year I tried to get sight o' that report. Then I tried
to find the Mission or the Presidio that the relief party started from,
and may be see some of that party. But then kem the gold excitement, and
the Americans took possession of the Missions and Presidios, and when I
got to San--San--San----"
"Geronimo," interrupted Ramirez, hastily.
"Did I tell?" asked Gabriel, simply; "I don't remember that."
Ramirez showed all his teeth in quick assent, and motioned him with his
finger to go on.
"When I got to San Geronimo, there was nobody, and no records left. Then
I put a notiss in the San Francisco paper for Philip Ashley--that was
the man as helped her away--to communicate with me. But thar weren't no
answer."
Ramirez rose.
"You are not rich, friend Gabriel?"
"No," said Gabriel.
"But you expect--ah--you expect?"
"Well, I reckon some day to make a strike like the rest."
"Anywhere, my friend?"
"Anywhere," repeated Gabriel, smiling.
"_Adios_," said the stranger, going to the door.
"_Adios_," repeated Gabriel. "Must you go to-night? What's your hurry?
You're sure you feel better now?"
"Better?" answered Ramirez, with a singular smile. "Better! Look, I am
so strong!"
He stretched out his arms, and expanded his chest, and walked erect to
the door.
"You have cured my rheumatism, friend Gabriel. Good night."
The door closed behind him. In another moment he was in the saddle, and
speeding so swiftly that, in spite of mud and darkness, in two hours he
had reached the mining town where the Wingdam and Sacramento stage-coach
changed horses. The next morning, while Olly and Gabriel were eating
breakfast, Mr. Victor Ramirez stepped briskly from the stage that drew
up at Marysville Hotel, and entered the hotel office. As the clerk
looked up inquiringly, Mr. Ramirez handed him a card--
"Send that, if you please, to Miss Grace Conroy."
CHAPTER II.
MADAME DEVARGES.
Mr. Ramirez followed the porter upstairs, and along a narrow passage,
until he reached a larger hall. Here the porter indicated that he should
wait until he returned, and then disappeared down the darkened vista of
another passage. Mr. Ramirez had ample time to observe the freshness of
the boarded partitions and scant details of the interior of the
International Hotel; he even had time to attempt to grapple the foreign
mystery of the notice conspicuously on the wall, "Gentlemen are
requested not to sleep on the stairs," before his companion reappeared.
Beckoning to Mr. Ramirez, with an air of surly suspicion, the porter led
him along the darkened passage until he paused before a door at its
farther extremity and knocked gently. Slight as was the knock, it had
the mysterious effect of causing all the other doors along the passage
to open, and a masculine head to appear at each opening. Mr. Ramirez's
brow darkened quickly. He was sufficiently conversant with the
conditions of that early civilization to know that, as a visitor to a
lady, he was the object of every man's curious envy and aggressive
suspicion. There was the sound of light footsteps within, and the door
opened. The porter lingered long enough to be able to decide upon the
character and propriety of the greeting, and then sullenly retired. The
door closed, and Mr. Ramirez found himself face to face with the
occupant of the room. She was a small, slight blonde, who, when the
smile that had lit her mouth and eyes as she opened the door faded
suddenly as she closed it, might have passed for a plain, indistinctive
woman. But for a certain dangerous submissiveness of manner--which I
here humbly submit is always to be feared in an all-powerful sex--and an
address that was rather more deprecatory than occasion called for, she
would hardly have awakened the admiration of our sex or the fears of her
own.
As Ramirez advanced, with both hands impulsively extended, she drew back
shyly, and, pointing to the ceiling and walls, said quietly, "Cloth and
paper!"
Ramirez's dark face grew darker. There was a long pause. Suddenly the
lady lightened the shadow that seemed to have fallen upon their
interview with both her teeth and eyes, and, pointing to a chair, said--
"Sit down, Victor, and tell me why you have returned so soon."
Victor sat sullenly down. The lady looked all deprecation and
submissiveness, but said nothing.
Ramirez would, in his sullenness, have imitated her, but his natural
impulsiveness was too strong, and he broke out--
"Look! From the book of the hotel it is better you should erase the name
of Grace Conroy, and put down your own!"
"And why, Victor?"
"She asks why," said Victor, appealing to the ceiling. "My God! Because
one hundred miles from here live the brother and sister of Grace Conroy.
I have seen him!"
"Well."
"Well," echoed Victor. "Is it well? Listen. You shall hear if it is
well."
He drew his chair beside her, and went on in a low, earnest voice--
"I have at last located the mine. I followed the _deseno_--the
description of the spot, and all its surroundings--which was in the
paper that I--I--found. Good! It is true!--ah, you begin to be
interested!--it is true, all true of the locality. See! Of the spot I do
not know. Of the mine it has not yet been discovered!
"It is called 'One Horse Gulch;' why--who knows? It is a rich mining
camp. All around are valuable claims; but the mine on the top of the
little hill is unknown, unclaimed! For why? You understand, it promises
not as much as the other claims on the surface. It is the same--all as
described here."
He took from his pocket an envelope, and drew out a folded paper (the
papers given to Grace Conroy by Dr. Devarges), and pointed to the map.
"The description here leads me to the head waters of the American River.
I followed the range of foot-hills, for I know every foot, every step,
and I came one day last week to 'One Horse Gulch.' See, it is the gulch
described here--all the same."
He held the paper before her, and her thin, long fingers closed like a
bird's claw over its corners.
"It is necessary I should stay there four or five days to inquire. And
yet how? I am a stranger, a foreigner; the miners have suspicion of all
such, and to me they do not talk easily. But I hear of one Gabriel
Conroy, a good man, very kind with the sick. Good! I have sickness--very
sudden, very strong! My rheumatism takes me here." He pointed to his
knee. "I am helpless as a child. I have to be taken care of at the house
of Mr. Briggs. Comes to me here Gabriel Conroy, sits by me, talks to me,
tells me everything. He brings to me his little sister. I go to his
cabin on the hill. I see the picture of his sister. Good. You
understand? It is all over!"
"Why?"
"Eh? She asks why, this woman," said Victor, appealing to the ceiling.
"Is it more you ask? Then listen. The house of Gabriel Conroy is upon
the land, the very land, you understand? of the grant made by the
Governor to Dr. Devarges. He is this Gabriel, look! he is in
possession!"
"How? Does he know of the mine?"
"No! It is accident--what you call Fate!"
She walked to the window, and stood for a few moments looking out upon
the falling rain. The face that looked out was so old, so haggard, so
hard and set in its outlines, that one of the loungers on the side-walk,
glancing at the window to catch a glimpse of the pretty French stranger,
did not recognise her. Possibly the incident recalled her to herself,
for she presently turned with a smile of ineffable sweetness, and
returning to the side of Ramirez, said, in the gentlest of voices, "Then
you abandon me?"
Victor did not dare to meet her eyes. He looked straight before him,
shrugged his shoulders, and said--"It is Fate!"
She clasped her thin fingers lightly before her, and, standing in front
of her companion, so as to be level with his eyes, said--"You have a
good memory, Victor."
He did not reply.
"Let me assist it. It is a year ago that I received a letter in Berlin,
signed by a Mr. Peter Dumphy, of San Francisco, saying that he was in
possession of important papers regarding property of my late husband,
Dr. Paul Devarges, and asking me to communicate with him. I did not
answer his letter; I came. It is not my way to deliberate or
hesitate--perhaps a wise man would. I am only a poor, weak woman, so I
came. I know it was all wrong. You sharp, bold, cautious men would have
written first. Well, I came!"
Victor winced slightly, but did not speak.
"I saw Mr. Dumphy in San Francisco. He showed me some papers that he
said he had found in a place of deposit which Dr. Devarges had evidently
wished preserved. One was a record of a Spanish grant, others indicated
some valuable discoveries. He referred me to the Mission and Presidio of
San Ysabel that had sent out the relief party for further information.
He was a trader--a mere man of business--it was a question of money with
him; he agreed to assist me for a _percentage_! Is it not so?"
Victor raised his dark eyes to hers, and nodded.
"I came to the Mission. I saw _you_--the Secretary of the former
Comandante--the only one left who remembered the expedition, and the
custodian of the Presidio records. You showed me the only copy of the
report; _you_, too, would have been cold and business-like, until I told
you my story. You seemed interested. You told me about the young girl,
this mysterious Grace Conroy, whose name appeared among the dead, who
you said you thought was an impostor! Did you not?"
Victor nodded.
"You told me of her agony on reading the report! Of her fainting, of the
discovery of her condition by the women, of the Comandante's pity, of
her mysterious disappearance, of the Comandante's reticence, of your own
suspicions of the birth of a child! Did you not, Victor?"
He endeavoured to take her hand. Without altering her gentle manner, she
withdrew her hand quietly, and went on--
"And then you told me of your finding that paper on the floor where they
loosened her dress--the paper you now hold in your hand. You told me of
your reasons for concealing and withholding it. And then, Victor, you
proposed to me a plan to secure my own again--to personate this girl--to
out-imposture this imposture. You did not ask me for a percentage! You
did not seek to make money out of my needs; you asked only for my love!
Well, well! perhaps I was a fool, a weak woman. It was a tempting bribe;
possibly I listened more to the promptings of my heart than my interest.
I promised you my hand and my fortune when we succeeded. You come to me
now, and ask to be relieved of that obligation. No! no! you have said
enough."
The now frightened man had seized her by the hand, and thrown himself on
his knees before her in passionate contrition; but, with a powerful
effort, she had wrested herself free.
"No, no!" she continued, in the same deprecatory voice. "Go to this
brother, whom the chief end of your labours seems to have been to
discover. Go to him now. Restore to him the paper you hold in your hand.
Say that you stole it from his sister, whom you suspected to have been
an impostor, and that you knew to be the mother of an illegitimate
child! Say that in doing this, you took the last hope from the wronged
and cast-off wife who came thousands of miles to claim something from
the man who should have supported her. Say this, and that brother, if he
is the good and kind man you represent him to be, he will rise up and
bless you! You have only to tell him further, that this paper cannot be
of any use to him, as this property legally belongs to his sister's
child, if living. You have only to hand him the report which declares
both of his sisters to be dead, and leaves his own identity in doubt, to
show him what a blessing has fallen upon him."
"Forgive me," gasped Victor, with a painful blending of shame and
awesome admiration of the woman before him; "forgive me, Julie! I am a
coward! a slave! an ingrate! I will do anything, Julie; anything you
say."
Madame Devarges was too sagacious to press her victory further; perhaps
she was too cautious to exasperate the already incautiously
demonstrative man before her. She said "Hush," and permitted him at the
same time, as if unconsciously, to draw her beside him.
"Listen, Victor. What have you to fear from this man?" she asked, after
a pause. "What would his evidence weigh against me, when he is in
unlawful possession of my property, my legally declared properly, if I
choose to deny his relationship? Who will identity him as Gabriel
Conroy, when his only surviving relative dare not come forward to
recognise him; when, if she did, you could swear that she came to you
under another name? What would this brother's self-interested evidence
amount to opposed to yours, that I was the Grace Conroy who came to the
Mission, to the proof of my identity offered by one of the survivors,
Peter Dumphy?"
"Dumphy!" echoed Ramirez, in amazement.
"Yes, Dumphy!" repeated Madame Devarges. "When he found that, as the
divorced wife of Dr. Devarges, I could make no legal claim, and I told
him of your plan, he offered himself as witness of my identity. Ah,
Victor! I have not been idle while you have found only obstacles."
"Forgive me!" He caught and kissed her hands passionately. "I fly now.
Good-bye."
"Where are you going?" she asked, rising.
"To 'One Horse Gulch,'" he answered.
"No! Sit down. Listen. You must go to San Francisco, and inform Dumphy
of your discovery. It will be necessary, perhaps, to have a lawyer; but
we must first see how strong we stand. You must find out the whereabouts
of this girl Grace, at once. Go to San Francisco, see Dumphy, and return
to me here!"
"But you are alone here, and unprotected. These men!"
The quick suspicions of a jealous nature flashed in his eyes.
"Believe me, they are less dangerous to our plans than women! Do you not
trust me, Victor?" she said, with a dazzling smile.
He would have thrown himself at her feet, but she restrained him with an
arch look at the wall, and a precautionary uplifted finger.
"Good; go now. Stay. This Gabriel--is he married?"
"No."
"Good-bye."
The door closed upon his dark, eager face, and he was gone. A moment
later there was a sharp ringing of the bell of No. 92, the next room to
that occupied by Mme. Devarges.
The truculent porter knocked at the door, and entered this room
respectfully. There was no suspicion attached to the character of _its_
occupant. _He_ was well known as Mr. Jack Hamlin, a gambler.
"Why the devil did you keep me waiting?" said Jack, reaching from the
bed, and wrathfully clutching his boot-jack.
The man murmured some apology.
"Bring me some hot water."
The porter was about to hurriedly withdraw, when Jack stopped him with
an oath.
"You've been long enough coming without shooting off like that. Who was
that man that just left the next room?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Find out, and let me know."
He flung a gold piece at the man, beat up his pillow, and turned his
face to the wall. The porter still lingered, and Jack faced sharply
round.
"Not gone yet? What the devil"----
"Beg your pardon, sir; do you know anything about her?"
"No," said Jack, raising himself on his elbow; "but if I catch you
hanging round that door, as you were five minutes ago, I'll"----.
Here Mr. Hamlin dropped his voice, and intimated that he would forcibly
dislodge certain vital and necessary organs from the porter's body.
"Go."
After the door closed again, Mr. Hamlin lay silent for an hour. At the
end of that time he got up and began to dress himself slowly, singing
softly to himself the while, as was his invariable custom, in that sweet
tenor for which he was famous. When he had thus warbled through his
toilet, replacing a small ivory-handled pistol in his waistcoat-pocket
to one of his most heart-breaking notes, he put his hat on his handsome
head, perhaps a trifle more on one side than usual, and stepped into the
hall. As he sharply shut his door and locked it, the slight concussion
of the thin partitions caused the door of his fair neighbour's room to
start ajar, and Mr. Hamlin, looking up mechanically, saw the lady
standing by the bureau, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Mr. Hamlin
instantly stopped his warbling, and walked gravely downstairs. At the
foot of the steps he met the porter. The man touched his hat.
"He doesn't belong here, sir."
"Who doesn't belong here?" asked Mr. Hamlin, coldly.
"That man."
"What man?"
"The man you asked about."
Mr. Hamlin quietly took out a cigar, lit it, and after one or two puffs,
looked fixedly in the man's eyes, and said--
"I haven't asked you about any man."
"I thought, sir"----
"You shouldn't begin to drink so early in the day, Michael," said Mr.
Hamlin, quietly, without withdrawing his black eyes from the man's face.
"You can't stand it on an empty stomach. Take my advice and wait till
after dinner."
CHAPTER III.
MRS. MARKLE.
Olly's allusion to Mrs. Markle and her criticism had recurred to Gabriel
more or less uneasily through the night, and as he rose betimes the next
morning and stood by the table on which lay his handiwork, a grim doubt
of his proficiency in that branch of domestic economy began to oppress
him.
"Like as not I ain't doin' my duty to that child," he said softly to
himself, as he picked up the garments one by one, and deposited them
beside the bedside of the still sleeping Olly. "Them clothes
are--leavin' out the strength and sayin' nothin' o' durability as
material--a trifle old-fashioned and onbecomin'. Not as you requires
anything o' the kind, bless your pooty face," he said, apostrophising
the dewy curls and slumber-flushed cheek of the unconscious child; "but
mebbe it does sorter provoke remarks from the other children. And the
settlement's gettin' crowded. Three new families in six months is rather
too--too----" considered Gabriel, hesitating for a word; "rather too
popylating! And Mrs. Markle"--Gabriel flushed even in the stillness and
solitude of his own cabin--"to think of that little gal, not nine years
old, speaking o' that widder in that way. It beats everything. And to
think I've kept clar of that sort o' thing jest on Olly's account, jest
that she shouldn't have any woman around to boss her."
Nevertheless, when he and Olly sat down to their frugal breakfast, he
was uneasily conscious of several oddities of her dress, not before
noticeable, and even some peculiarities of manner.
"Ez a gineral thing, Olly," he pointed out with cautious generalisation,
"ez a gineral thing, in perlite society, young gals don't sit down
a-straddle of their chairs, and don't reach down every five minnits to
heave away at their boot-straps."
"As a general thing, Gabe, girls don't wear boots," said Olly, leaning
forward to dip her bread in the frying-pan.
Artfully evading the question whether high india-rubber boots were an
indispensable feature of a girl's clothing, Gabriel continued with easy
indifference--"I think I'll drop in on Mrs. Markle on my way to the
Gulch this morning."
He glanced under his eyelids at as much of his sister's face as was
visible behind the slice of bread she was consuming.
"Take me with you, Gabe?"
"No," said Gabriel, "you must stay here and do up the house; and mind
you keep out o' the woods until your work's done. Besides," he added,
loftily, "I've got some business with Mrs. Markle."
"Oh, Gabe!" said Olly, shining all over her face with gravy and
archness.
"I'd like to know what's the matter with you, Olly," said Gabriel, with
dignified composure.
"Ain't you ashamed, Gabe?"
Gabriel did not stop to reply, but rose, gathered up his tools, and took
his hat from the corner. He walked to the door, but suddenly turned and
came back to Olly.
"Olly," he said, taking her face in both hands, after his old fashion,
"ef anything at any time should happen to me, I want ye to think, my
darling, ez I always did my best for you, Olly, for you. Wotever I did
was always for the best."
Olly thought instantly of the river.
"You ain't goin' into deep water to-day, Gabe, are you?" she asked, with
a slight premonitory quiver of her short upper lip.
"Pooty deep for me, Olly; but," he added, hastily, with a glance at her
alarmed face, "don't you mind, I'll come out all safe. Good-bye." He
kissed her tenderly. She ran her fingers through his sandy curls, deftly
smoothed his beard, and reknotted his neckerchief.
"You oughter hev put on your other shirt, Gabe; that ain't clean; and
you a-goin' to Mrs. Markle's! Let me get your straw hat, Gabe. Wait."
She ran in behind the screen, but when she returned he was gone.
It had been raining the night before, but on the earth beneath there was
a dewy freshness, and in the sky above the beauty of cloud scenery--a
beauty rare to California except during the rainy season. Gabriel,
although not usually affected by meteorological influences, nor
peculiarly susceptible to the charms of Nature, felt that the morning
was a fine one, and was for that reason, I imagine, more than usually
accessible to the blandishments of the fair. From admiring a tree, a
flower, or a gleam of sunshine, to the entertainment of a dangerous
sentimentalism in regard to the other sex, is, I fear, but a facile step
to some natures, whose only safety is in continuous practicality.
Wherefore, Gabriel, as he approached the cottage of Mrs. Markle, was
induced to look from Nature up to--Nature's goddess--Mrs. Markle, as her
strong bright face appeared above the dishes she was washing by the
kitchen window. And here occurred one of those feminine inconsistencies
that are charming to the average man, but are occasionally inefficient
with an exceptional character. Mrs. Markle, who had always been
exceedingly genial, gentle, and natural with Gabriel during his shyness,
seeing him coming with a certain fell intent of cheerfulness in his
face, instantly assumed an aggressive manner, which, for the sake of its
probable warning to the rest of her sex, I venture to transcribe.
"Ef you want to see me, Gabriel Conroy," said Mrs. Markle, stopping to
wipe the suds from her brown but handsomely shaped arms, "you must come
up to the sink, for I can't leave the dishes. Joe Markle always used to
say to me, 'Sue, when you've got work to do, you don't let your mind
wander round much on anything else.' Sal, bring a cheer here for
Gabriel--he don't come often enough to stand up for a change. We're
hard-working women, you and me, Sal, and we don't get time to be
sick--and sick folks is about the only kind as Mr. Conroy cares to see."
Thoroughly astonished as Gabriel was with this sarcastic reception,
there was still a certain relief that it brought to him. "Olly was
wrong," he said to himself; "that woman only thinks of washing dishes
and lookin' after her boarders. Ef she was allus like this--and would
leave a man alone, never foolin' around him, but kinder standin' off and
'tendin' strictly to the business of the house, why, it wouldn't be
such a bad thing to marry her. But like as not she'd change--you can't
trust them critters. Howsomever I can set Olly's mind at rest."
Happily unconscious of the heresies that were being entertained by the
silent man before her, Mrs. Markle briskly continued her washing and her
monologue, occasionally sprinkling Gabriel with the overflow of each.
"When I say hard-workin' women, Sal," said Mrs. Markle, still addressing
a gaunt female companion, whose sole functions were confined to
chuckling at Gabriel over the dishes she was wiping, and standing with
her back to her mistress--"when I say hard-workin' women, Sal, I don't
forget ez there are men ez is capable of doin' all that, and more--men
ez looks down on you and me." Here Mistress Markle broke a plate, and
then, after a pause, sighed, faced around with a little colour in her
cheek and a sharp snap in her black eyes, and declared that she was
"that narvous" this morning that she couldn't go on.
There was an embarrassing silence. Luckily for Gabriel, at this moment
the gaunt Sal picked up the dropped thread of conversation, and with her
back to her mistress, and profoundly ignoring his presence, addressed
herself to the wall.
"Narvous you well may be, Susan, and you slavin' for forty boarders,
with transitory meals for travellers, and nobody to help you. If you was
flat on your back with rheumatiz, ez you well might be, perhaps you
might get a hand. A death in the family might be of sarvice to you in
callin' round you friends az couldn't otherwise leave their business.
That cough that little Manty had on to her for the last five weeks would
frighten some mothers into a narvous consumption."
Gabriel at this moment had a vivid and guilty recollection of noticing
Manty Markle wading in the ditch below the house as he entered, and of
having observed her with the interest of possible paternal relationship.
That relationship seemed so preposterous and indefensible on all moral
grounds, now that he began to feel himself in the light of an impostor,
and was proportionally embarrassed. His confusion was shown in a manner
peculiarly characteristic of himself. Drawing a small pocket comb from
his pocket, he began combing out his sandy curls, softly, with a
perplexed smile on his face. The widow had often noticed this action,
divined its cause, and accepted it as a tribute. She began to relent. By
some occult feminine sympathy, this relenting was indicated by the other
woman.
"You're out of sorts this morning, Susan, 'nd if ye'll take a fool's
advice, ye'll jest quit work, and make yourself comfortable in the
settin'-room, and kinder pass the time o' day with Gabriel; onless he's
after waitin' to pick up some hints about housework. I never could work
with a man around. I'll do up the dishes ef you'll excuse my kempany,
which two is and three's none. Yer give me this apron. You don't hev
time, I declare, Sue, to tidy yourself up. And your hair's comin' down."
The gaunt Sal, having recognised Gabriel's presence to this extent,
attempted to reorganise Mrs. Markle's coiffure, but was playfully put
aside by that lady, with the remark, that "she had too much to do to
think of them things."
"And it's only a mop, anyway," she added, with severe self-depreciation;
"let it alone, will you, Sal! Thar! I told you; now you've done it." And
she had. The infamous Sal, by some deft trick well known to her
deceitful sex, had suddenly tumbled the whole wealth of Mrs. Markle's
black mane over her plump shoulders. Mrs. Markle, with a laugh, would
have flown to the chaste recesses of the sitting-room; but Sal, like a
true artist, restrained her, until the full effect of this poetic
picture should be impressed upon the unsuspecting Gabriel's memory.
"Mop, indeed!" said Sal. "It's well that many folks is of many minds,
and self-praise is open disgrace; but when a man like Lawyer Maxwell sez
to me only yesterday sittin' at this very table, lookin' kinder up at
you, Sue, as you was passin' soup, unconscious like, and one o' 'em
braids droppin' down, and jest missin' the plate, when Lawyer Maxwell
sez to me, 'Sal, thar's many a fine lady in Frisco ez would give her
pile to have Susan Markle's hair'"----
But here Sal was interrupted by the bashful escape of Mrs. Markle to the
sitting-room. "Ye don't know whether Lawyer Maxwell has any bisness up
this way, Gabriel, do ye?" said Sal, resuming her work.
"No," said the unconscious Gabriel, happily as oblivious of the artful
drift of the question as he had been of the dangerous suggestiveness of
Mrs. Markle's hair.
"Because he _does_ kinder pass here more frequent than he used, and hez
taken ez menny ez five meals in one day. I declare, I thought that was
him when you kem just now! I don't think thet Sue notices it, not
keering much for that kind of build in a man," continued Sal, glancing
at Gabriel's passively powerful shoulders, and the placid strength of
his long limbs. "How do you think Sue's looking now--ez a friend
interested in the family--how does she look to you?"
Gabriel hastened to assure Sal of the healthful appearance of Mrs.
Markle, but only extracted from his gaunt companion a long sigh and a
shake of the head.
"It's deceitful, Gabriel! No one knows what that poor critter goes
through. Her mind's kinder onsettled o' late, and in that onsettled
state, she breaks things. You see her break that plate just now? Well,
perhaps I oughtn't to say it--but you being a friend and in confidence,
for she'd kill me, being a proud kind o' nater, suthin' like my own,
and it may not amount to nothin' arter all--but I kin always tell when
you've been around by the breakages. You was here, let's see, the week
afore last, and there wasn't cups enough left to go round that night for
supper!"
"Maybe it's chills," said the horror-stricken Gabriel, his worst fears
realised, rising from his chair; "I've got some Indian cholagogue over
to the cabin, and I'll jest run over and get it, or send it back."
Intent only upon retreat, he would have shamelessly flown; but Sal
intercepted him with a face of mysterious awe.
"Ef she should kem in here and find you gone, Gabriel, in that weak
state of hers--narvous you may call it, but so it is--I wouldn't be
answerable for that poor critter's life. Ef she should think you'd gone,
arter what has happened, arter what has passed between you and her
to-day, it would jest kill her."
"But what has passed?" said Gabriel, in vague alarm.
"It ain't for me," said the gaunt Sal, loftily, "to pass my opinion on
other folks' conduct, or to let on what this means, or what thet means,
or to give my say about people callin' on other people, and broken
crockery, hair combs"--Gabriel winced--"and people ez is too nice and
keerful to open their mouths afore folks! It ain't for me to get up and
say that, when a woman is ever so little out of sorts, and a man is so
far gone ez he allows to rush off like a madman to get her medicines,
what ez or what ezn't in it. I keep my own counsel, and thet's my way.
Many's the time Sue hez said to me: 'Ef thar ever was a woman ez knowed
how to lock herself up and throw away the key, it's you, Sal.' And there
you are, ma'am, and it's high time ez plain help like me stopped talkin'
while ladies and gentlemen exchanged the time o' day."
It is hardly necessary to say that the latter part of this speech was
addressed to the widow, who at that moment appeared at the door of the
sitting-room, in a new calico gown that showed her plump figure to
advantage, or that the gaunt Sal intended to indicate the serious
character of the performance by a show of increased respect to the
actors.
"I hope I ain't intrudin' on your conversation," said the widow, archly,
stopping, with a show of consideration, on the threshold. "Ef you and
Sal ain't done private matters yet--I'll wait."
"I don't think ez Gabriel hez anything more to say thet you shouldn't
hear, Mrs. Markle," said Sal, strongly implying a recent confidential
disclosure from Gabriel, which delicacy to Gabriel alone prevented her
from giving. "But it ain't for me to hear confidence in matters of the
feelin's."
It is difficult to say whether Mrs. Markle's archness, or Sal's woeful
perspicuity, was most alarming to Gabriel. He rose; he would have flown,
even with the terrible contingency of Mrs. Markle's hysterics before his
eyes; he would have faced even that forcible opposition from Sal of
which he fully believed her capable, but that a dreadful suspicion that
he was already hopelessly involved, that something would yet transpire
that would enable him to explain himself, and perhaps an awful
fascination of his very danger, turned his irresolute feet into Mrs.
Markle's sitting-room. Mrs. Markle offered him a chair; he sank
helplessly into it, while, from the other room, Sal, violently
clattering her dishes, burst into shrill song, so palpably done for the
purpose of assuring the bashful couple of her inability to overhear
their tender confidences, that Gabriel coloured to the roots of his
hair.
That evening Gabriel returned from his work in the gulch more than
usually grave. To Olly's inquiries he replied shortly and evasively. It
was not, however, Gabriel's custom to remain uncommunicative on even
disagreeable topics, and Olly bided her time. It came after their frugal
supper was over--which, unlike the morning meal, passed without any
fastidious criticism on Gabriel's part--and Olly had drawn a small box,
her favourite seat, between her brother's legs, and rested the back of
her head comfortably against his waistcoat. When Gabriel had lighted his
pipe at the solitary candle, he gave one or two preliminary puffs, and
then, taking his pipe from his mouth, said gently, "Olly, it can't be
done."
"What can't be done, Gabe?" queried the artful Olly, with a swift
preconception of the answer, expanding her little mouth into a
thoughtful smile.
"Thet thing."--"What thing, Gabe?"
"This yer marryin' o' Mrs. Markle," said Gabriel, with an assumption of
easy, business-like indifference.
"Why?" asked Olly.
"She wouldn't hev me."
"What?" said Olly, facing swiftly round.
Gabriel evaded his sister's eyes, and looking in the fire, repeated
slowly, but with great firmness--
"No; not fur--fur--fur a gift!"
"She's a mean, stuck-up, horrid old thing!" said Olly, fiercely. "I'd
jest like to--why, there ain't a man az kin compare with you, Gabe! Like
her impudence!"
Gabriel waved his pipe in the air deprecatingly, yet with such an
evident air of cheerful resignation, that Olly faced upon him again
suspiciously, and asked--"What did she say?"
"She said," replied Gabe, slowly, "thet her heart was given to another.
I think she struck into poetry, and said--
"'My heart it is another's,
And it never can be thine.
"Thet is, I think so. I disremember her special remark, Olly; but you
know women allers spout poetry at sech times. Ennyhow, that's about the
way the spring panned out."
"Who was it?" said Olly, suddenly.
"She didn't let on who," said Gabriel, uneasily. "I didn't think it the
square thing to inquire."
"Well," said Olly.
Gabriel looked down still more embarrassed, and shifted his position.
"Well," he repeated.
"What did _you_ say?" said Olly.--"Then?"
"No, afore. How did you do it, Gabe?" said Olly, comfortably fixing her
chin in her hands, and looking up in her brother's face.
"Oh, the usual way!" said Gabriel, with a motion of his pipe, to
indicate vague and glittering generalities of courtship.
"But how? Gabe, tell me all about it."
"Well," said Gabriel, looking up at the roof, "wimmen is bashful ez a
general thing, and thar's about only one way ez a man can get at 'em,
and that ez, by being kinder keerless and bold. Ye see, Olly, when I kem
inter the house, I sorter jest chucked Sal under the chin--thet way, you
know--and then went up and put my arm around the widder's waist, and
kissed her two or three times, you know, jest to be sociable and
familiar like."
"And to think, Gabe, thet after all that she wouldn't hev ye," said
Olly.
"Not at any price," said Gabriel, positively.
"The disgustin' creature!" said Olly, "I'd jest like to ketch that Manty
hangin' round yer after that!" she continued, savagely, with a vicious
shake of her little fist. "And just to think, only to-day we give her
her pick o' them pups!"
"Hush, Olly, ye mustn't do anythin' o' the sort," said Gabriel,
hastily. "Ye must never let on to any one anything. It's confidence,
Olly, confidence, ez these sort o' things allus is--atween you and me.
Besides," he went on, reassuringly, "that's nothin'. Lord, afore a man's
married he hez to go through this kind o' thing a dozen times. It's
expected. There was a man as I once knowed," continued Gabriel, with
shameless mendacity, "ez went through it fifty tunes, and he was a
better man nor me, and could shake a thousand dollars in the face of any
woman. Why, bless your eyes, Olly, some men jest likes it--it's
excitement--like perspectin'."
"But what did you say, Gabe?" said Olly, returning with fresh curiosity
to the central fact, and ignoring the Pleasures of Rejection as
expounded by Gabriel.
"Well, I just up, and sez this: Susan Markle, sez I, the case is just
this. Here's Olly and me up there on the hill, and jess you and Manty
down there on the Gulch, and mountings wild and valleys deep two loving
hearts do now divide, and there's no reason why it shouldn't be one
family and one house, and that family and that house mine. And it's for
you to say when. And then I kinder slung in a little more poetry, and
sorter fooled around with that ring," said Gabriel, showing a heavy
plain gold ring on his powerful little finger, "and jest kissed her
agin, and chucked Sally under the chin, and that's all."
"And she wouldn't hev ye, Gabe," said Olly, thoughtfully, "after all
that? Well, who wants her to? I don't."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Olly," said Gabriel. "But ye mustn't let
on a word of it to her. She talks o' coming up on the hill to build, and
wants to buy that part of the old claim where I perspected last summer,
so's to be near us, and look arter you. And, Olly," continued Gabriel,
gravely, "ef she comes round yer foolin' around me ez she used to do, ye
mustn't mind that--it's women's ways."
"I'd like to catch her at it," said Olly.
Gabriel looked at Olly with a guilty satisfaction, and drew her toward
him. "And now that it's all over, Olly," said he, "it's all the better
ez it is. You and me'll get along together ez comfortable as we kin. I
talked with some of the boys the other day about sendin' for a
schoolmarm from Marysville, and Mrs. Markle thinks it's a good idee. And
you'll go to school, Olly. I'll run up to Marysville next week and get
you some better clothes, and we'll be just ez happy ez ever. And then
some day, Olly, afore you know it--them things come always suddent--I'll
jest make a strike outer that ledge, and we'll be rich. Thar's money in
that ledge, Olly, I've allus allowed that. And then we'll go--you and
me--to San Francisco, and we'll hev a big house, and I'll jest invite a
lot of little girls, the best they is in Frisco, to play with you, and
you'll hev all the teachers you want, and women ez will be glad to look
arter ye. And then maybe I might make it up with Mrs. Markle"----
"Never!" said Olly, passionately.
"Never it is!" said the artful Gabriel, with a glow of pleasure in his
eyes, and a slight stirring of remorse in his breast. "But it's time
that small gals like you was abed."
Thus admonished, Olly retired behind the screen, taking the solitary
candle, and leaving her brother smoking his pipe by the light of the
slowly dying fire. But Olly did not go to sleep, and half an hour later,
peering out of the screen, she saw her brother still sitting by the
fire, his pipe extinguished, and his head resting on his hand. She went
up to him so softly that she startled him, shaking a drop of water on
the hand that she suddenly threw round his neck.
"You ain't worrying about that woman, Gabe?"
"No," said Gabriel, with a laugh.
Olly looked down at her hand. Gabriel looked up at the roof. "There's a
leak thar that's got to be stopped to-morrow. Go to bed, Olly, or you'll
take your death."
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH THE ARTFUL GABRIEL IS DISCOVERED.
Notwithstanding his assumed ease and a certain relief, which was real,
Gabriel was far from being satisfied with the result of his visit to
Mrs. Markle. Whatever may have actually occurred, not known to the
reader except through Gabriel's own disclosure to Olly, Gabriel's manner
hardly bore out the boldness and conclusiveness of his statement. For a
day or two afterwards he resented any allusion to the subject from Olly,
but on the third day he held a conversation with one of the Eureka Bar
miners, which seemed to bear some remote reference to his experience.
"Thar's a good deal said lately in the papers," began Gabriel,
cautiously, "in regard to breach o' promise trials. Lookin' at it, by
and large, thar don't seem to be much show for a fellow ez hez been in
enny ways kind to a gal, is thar?"
The person addressed, whom rumour declared to have sought One Horse
Gulch as a place of refuge from his wife, remarked with an oath that
women were blank fools anyway, and that on general principles they were
not to be trusted.
"But thar must be a kind o' gin'ral law on the subject," urged Gabriel.
"Now what would be your opinion if you was on a jury onto a case like
this? It happened to a friend o' mine in Frisco," said Gabriel, with a
marked parenthesis, "a man ez you don't know. Thar was a woman--we'll
say a widder--ez had been kinder hangin' round him off and on for two
or three year, and he hadn't allowed anything to her about marryin'. One
day he goes down thar to her house, kinder easy-like, jest to pass the
time o' day, and be sociable"----
"That's bad," interrupted the cynic.
"Yes," said Gabriel, doubtingly, "p'r'aps it does look bad, but you see
he didn't mean anythin'."
"Well?" said the adviser.
"Well! thet's all," said Gabriel.
"All!" exclaimed his companion, indignantly.
"Yes, all. Now this woman kinder allows she'll bring a suit agin him to
make him marry her."
"My opinion is," said the adviser, bluntly, "my opinion is, that the man
was a fool, and didn't tell ye the truth nuther, and I'd give damages
agin him, for being such a fool."
This opinion was so crushing to Gabriel that he turned hopelessly away.
Nevertheless, in his present state of mind, he could not refrain from
pushing his inquiries further, and in a general conversation which took
place at Briggs's store, in the afternoon, among a group of smokers,
Gabriel artfully introduced the subject of courtship and marriage.
"Thar's different ways of getting at the feelin's of a woman," said the
oracular Johnson, after a graphic statement of his own method of
ensnaring the affections of a former sweetheart, "thar's different ways
jest as thar's different men and women in the world. One man's way won't
do with some wimmen. But thar's one way ez is pretty sure to fetch 'em
allers. That is, to play off indifferent--to never let on ye like 'em!
To kinder look arter them in a gin'ral sort o' way, pretty much as Gabe
thar looks arter the sick!--but not to say anythin' particler. To make
them understand that they've got to do all the courtin', ef thar's enny
to be done. What's the matter, Gabe, ye ain't goin'?"
Gabriel, who had risen in great uneasiness, muttered something about
"its being time to go home," and then sat down again, looking at Johnson
in fearful fascination.
"That kind o' thing is pretty sure to fetch almost enny woman,"
continued Johnson, "and a man ez does it orter be looked arter. It orter
be put down by law. It's tamperin', don't yer see, with the holiest
affections. Sich a man orter be spotted wharever found."
"But mebbe the man don't mean anythin'--mebbe it's jest his way,"
suggested Gabriel, ruefully, looking around in the faces of the party,
"mebbe he don't take to wimmen and marriage nat'ral, and it's jest his
way."
"Way be blowed!" said the irate Johnson, scornfully. "Ketch him, indeed!
It's jest the artfullest kind o' artfulness. It's jest begging on a full
hand."
Gabriel rose slowly, and, resisting any further attempts to detain him,
walked to the door, and, after a remark on the threatening nature of the
weather, delivered in a manner calculated to impress his audience with
his general indifference to the subject then under discussion, melted
dejectedly away into the driving rain that had all day swept over One
Horse Gulch, and converted its one long narrow street into a ditch of
turbulent yellow water.
"Thet Gabe seems to be out o' sorts to-day," said Johnson. "I heerd
Lawyer Maxwell asking arter him this morning; I reckon thar's suthin'
up! Gabe ain't a bad sort of chap. Hezen't got enny too much _sabe_
about him, but he's mighty good at looking arter sick folks, and thet
kind o' man's a power o' use in this camp. Hope thar ain't anything ez
will interfere with his sphere o' usefulness."
"May be a woman scrape," suggested Briggs. "He seemed sort o' bound up
in what you was saying about women jest now. Thar is folks round yer,"
said Briggs, dropping his voice and looking about him, "ez believes
that that yer Olly, which he lets on to be his sister, to be actooally
his own child. No man would tote round a child like that, and jest bind
himself up in her, and give up wimmen and whisky, and keerds, and
kempeny, ef it wasn't his own. Thet ain't like brothers in my part of
the country."
"It's a mighty queer story he tells, ennyways--all this yer stuff about
Starvation Camp and escapin'," suggested another. "I never did, somehow,
take enny stock in that."
"Well, it's his own look out," concluded Johnson. "It's nothin' to me.
Ef I've been any service to him pintin' out sick people, and kinder
makin' suggestions here and thar, how he should look arter them, he's
welcome to it. I don't go back on my record, if he hez got into
trouble."
"And I'm sure," said Briggs, "if I did allow him to come in here and
look arter thet sick Mexican, it ain't for me to be expected to look
after his moril character too." But here the entrance of a customer put
a stop to further criticism.
Meanwhile the unfortunate subject of this discussion, by clinging close
to the walls of houses, had avoided the keen blast that descended from
the mountain, and had at last reached the little trail that led through
the gulch to his cabin on the opposite hill-side. Here Gabriel
hesitated. To follow that trail would lead him past the boarding-house
of Mrs. Markle. In the light of the baleful counsel he had just
received, to place himself as soon again in the way of danger seemed to
him to be only a provocation of fate. That the widow and Sal might swoop
down upon him as he passed, and compel him to enter; that the spectacle
of his passing without a visit might superinduce instant hysterics on
the part of the widow, appeared to his terror-stricken fancy as almost a
certainty. The only other way home was by a circuitous road along the
ridge of the hill, at least three miles farther. Gabriel did not
hesitate long, but began promptly to ascend the hill. This was no easy
task in the face of a strong gale and torrents of beating rain, but the
overcoming of physical difficulties by the exercise of his all
conquering muscles, and the fact that he was doing something, relieved
his mind of its absurd terrors. When he had reached the summit he
noticed for the first time the full power of those subtle agencies that
had been silently at work during the last week's steady rain. A thin
trickling mountain rill where he had two weeks before slaked his thirst
during a ramble with Olly, was now transformed into a roaring cataract;
the brook that they had leaped across was now a swollen river. There
were slowly widening pools in the valleys, darkly glancing sheets of
water on the distant plains, and a monotonous rush and gurgle always in
the air. It was half an hour later, and two miles farther on his rough
road, that he came in view of the narrow precipitous gorge through which
the Wingdam stage passed on its way from Marysville. As he approached
nearer he could see that the little mountain stream which ran beside the
stage road had already slightly encroached upon the road-bed, and that
here and there the stage road itself was lost in drifts of standing
water. "It will be pretty rough drivin' up that cañon," said Gabriel to
himself as he thought of the incoming Wingdam stage, now nearly due;
"mighty onpleasant and risky with narvous leaders, but thar's worse
things than that in this yer world," he meditated, as his mind reverted
again to Mrs. Markle, "and ef I could change places with Yuba Bill, and
get on that box and Olly inside--I'd do it!"
But just then the reservoir of the Wingdam ditch came in view on the
hill beside him, and with it a revelation that in a twinkling displaced
Mrs. Markle, and seemed almost to change the man's entire nature! What
was it? Apparently nothing to the eye of the ordinary traveller. The
dam was full, and through a cut-off the overplus water was escaping
with a roar. Nothing more? Yes--to an experienced eye the escaping water
was not abating the quantity in the dam. Was that all? No! Halfway down
the rudely constructed _adobe_ bank of the dam, the water was slowly
oozing and trickling through a slowly-widening crevice, over the rocks
above the gorge and stage road below! The wall of the dam was giving
way! To tear off coat and all impeding garments, to leap from rock to
rock, and boulder to boulder, hanging on by slippery chimisal and the
decayed roots of trees; to reach at the risk of life and limb the cañon
below, and then to run at the highest speed to warn the incoming stage
of the danger before it should enter the narrow gorge, was only the
resolve and action of a brave man. But to do this without the smallest
waste of strength that ought to be preserved, to do this with the
greatest economy of force, to do this with the agility and skill of a
mountaineer, and the reserved power of a giant; to do this with a will
so simple, direct, and unhesitating, that the action appeared to have
been planned and rehearsed days before, instead of being the resolution
of the instant,--this belonged to Gabriel Conroy! And to have seen him
settle into a long swinging trot, and to have observed his calm, grave,
earnest, but unexcited face, and quiet, steadfast eye, you would have
believed him some healthy giant simply exercising himself.
He had not gone half a mile before his quick ear caught a dull sound and
roar of advancing water. Yet even then he only slightly increased his
steady stride, as if he had been quickened and followed by his trainer
rather than by approaching Death. At the same moment there was a quick
rattle and clatter in the road ahead--a halt, and turning back, for
Gabriel's warning shout had run before him like a bullet. But it was too
late. The roaring water behind him struck him and bore him down, and
the next instant swept the coach and horses a confused, struggling,
black mass, against the rocky walls of the cañon. And then it was that
the immense reserved strength of Gabriel came into play. Set upon by the
almost irresistible volume of water, he did not waste his power in
useless opposition, but allowed himself to be swept hither and thither
until he touched a branch of chimisal that depended from the cañon side.
Seizing it with one sudden and mighty effort, he raised himself above
the sweep and suction of the boiling flood. The coach was gone; where it
had stood a few black figures struggled, swirled, and circled. One of
them was a woman. In an instant Gabriel plunged into the yellow water. A
few strokes brought him to her side; in another moment he had encircled
her waist with his powerful arm and lifted her head above the surface,
when he was seized by two despairing arms from the other side. Gabriel
did not shake them off. "Take hold of me lower down and I'll help ye
both," he shouted, as he struck out with his only free arm for the
chimisal. He reached it; drew himself up so that he could grasp it with
his teeth, and then, hanging on by his jaw, raised his two clinging
companions beside him. They had barely grasped it, when another ominous
roar was heard below, and another wall of yellow water swept swiftly up
the cañon. The chimisal began to yield to their weight. Gabriel dug his
fingers into the soil about its roots, clutched the jagged edges of a
rock beneath, and threw his arm about the woman, pressing her closely to
the face of the wall. As the wave swept over them, there was a sudden
despairing cry, a splash, and the man was gone. Only Gabriel and the
woman remained. They were safe, but for the moment only. Gabriel's left
hand grasping an insecure projection, was all that sustained their
united weight. Gabriel, for the first time, looked down upon the woman.
Then he said hesitatingly--
"Kin ye hold yourself a minnit?"--"Yes."
Even at that critical moment some occult quality of sweetness in her
voice thrilled him.
"Lock your hands together hard, and sling 'em over my neck." She did so.
Gabriel freed his right hand. He scarcely felt the weight thus suddenly
thrown upon his shoulders, but cautiously groped for a projection on the
rock above. He found it, raised himself by a supreme effort, until he
secured a foothold in the hole left by the uprooted chimisal bush. Here
he paused.
"Kin ye hang on a minnit longer?"
"Go on," she said.
Gabriel went on. He found another projection, and another, and gradually
at last reached a ledge a foot wide, near the top of the cliff. Here he
paused. It was the woman's turn to speak.
"Can you climb to the top?" she asked.
"Yes--if you"----
"Go on," she said, simply.
Gabriel continued the ascent cautiously. In a few minutes he had reached
the top. Here her hands suddenly relaxed their grasp; she would have
slipped to the ground had not Gabriel caught her by the waist, lifted
her in his arms, and borne her to a spot where a fallen pine-tree had
carpeted and cushioned the damp ground with its withered tassels. Here
he laid her down with that exquisite delicacy and tenderness of touch
which was so habitual to him in his treatment of all helplessness as to
be almost unconscious. But she thanked him, with such a graceful
revelation of small white teeth, and such a singular look out of her
dark grey eyes, that he could not help looking at her again. She was a
small light-haired woman, tastefully and neatly dressed, and of a type
and class unknown to him. But for her smile, he would not have thought
her pretty. But even with that smile on her face, she presently paled
and fainted. At the same moment Gabriel heard the sound of voices, and,
looking up, saw two of the passengers, who had evidently escaped by
climbing the cliff, coming towards them. And then--I know not how to
tell it--but a sudden and awe-inspiring sense of his ambiguous and
peculiar situation took possession of him. What would they think of it?
Would they believe his statement? A sickening recollection of the late
conversation at Brigg's returned to him; the indignant faces of the
gaunt Sal and the plump Mrs. Markle were before him; even the
questioning eyes of little Olly seemed to pierce his inmost soul, and
alas! this hero, the victorious giant, turned and fled.
CHAPTER V.
SIMPLICITY _versus_ SAGACITY.
When Gabriel reached his home it was after dark, and Olly was anxiously
waiting to receive him.
"You're wet all through, you awful Gabe, and covered with mud into the
bargain. Go and change your clothes, or you'll get your death, as sure
as you're a born sinner!"
The tone and manner in which this was uttered was something unusual with
Olly, but Gabriel was too glad to escape further questioning to
criticise or rebuke it. But when he had reappeared from behind the
screen with dry clothes, he was surprised to observe by the light of the
newly-lit candle that Olly herself had undergone since morning a decided
change in her external appearance. Not to speak alone of an unusual
cleanliness of face and hands, and a certain attempt at confining her
yellow curls with a vivid pink ribbon, there was an unwonted neatness in
her attire, and some essay at adornment in a faded thread-lace collar
which she had found among her mother's "things" in the family bag, and
a purple neck-ribbon.
"It seems to me," said the delighted Gabriel, "that somebody else hez
been dressin' up and makin' a toylit, sence I've been away. Hev you been
in the ditches agin, Olly?"
"No," said Olly, with some dignity of manner, as she busied herself in
setting the table for supper.
"But I reckon I never seen ye look so peart afore, Olly; who's been
here?" he added, with a sudden alarm.
"Nobody," said Olly; "I reckon some folks kin get along and look decent
without the help of other folks, leastways of Susan Markle."
At this barbed arrow Gabriel winced slightly. "See yer, Olly," said
Gabriel, "ye mustn't talk thet way about thet woman. You're only a
chile--and ef yer brother did let on to ye, in confidence, certing
things ez a brother may say to his sister, ye oughtn't say anythin'
about it."
"Say anythin'!" echoed Olly, scornfully; "do you think I'd ever let on
to thet woman ennything? Ketch me!"
Gabriel looked up at his sister in awful admiration, and felt at the
depths of his conscience-stricken and self-deprecatory nature that he
didn't deserve so brave a little defender. For a moment he resolved to
tell her the truth, but a fear of Olly's scorn and a desire to bask in
the sunshine of her active sympathy withheld him. "Besides," he added to
himself, in a single flash of self-satisfaction, "this yer thing may be
the makin' o' thet gal yet. Look at thet collar, Gabriel! look at thet
hair, Gabriel! all your truth-tellin' never fetched outer thet purty
child what thet one yarn did."
Nevertheless, as Gabriel sat down to his supper he was still haunted by
the ominous advice and counsel he had heard that day. When Olly had
finished her meal, he noticed that she had forborne, evidently at great
personal sacrifice, to sop the frying-pan with her bread. He turned to
her gravely--
"Ef you wus ever asked, Olly, ef I had been sweet upon Mrs. Markle, wot
would ye say?"
"Say," said Olly savagely, "I'd say that if there ever was a woman ez
had run arter a man with less call to do it--it was Mrs. Markle--that
same old disgustin' Susan Markle. Thet's wot I'd say, and I'd say it--to
her face! Gabe, see here!"
"Well," said the delighted Gabriel.
"Ef that school-ma'am comes up here, do you jest make up to her!"
"Olly!" ejaculated the alarmed Gabriel.
"You jest go for her! You jest do for her what you did for that Susan
Markle. And jest you do it, if you can, Gabe--when Mrs. Markle's
around--or afore little Manty--she'll go and tell her mother--she tells
her everything. I've heerd, Gabe, that some o' them school-ma'ams is
nice."
In his desire to please Olly, Gabriel would have imparted to her the
story of his adventure in the cañon, but a vague fear that Olly might
demand from him an instant offer of his hand and heart to the woman he
had saved, checked the disclosure. And the next moment there was a rap
at the door of the cabin.
"I forgot to say, Gabe, that Lawyer Maxwell was here to-day to see ye,"
said Olly, "and I bet you thet's him. If he wants you to nuss anybody,
Gabe, don't ye do it! You got enough to do to look arter me!"
Gabriel rose with a perplexed face and opened the door. A tall dark man,
with a beard heavily streaked with grey, entered. There was something in
his manner and dress, although both conformed to local prejudices and
customs, that denoted a type of man a little above the average social
condition of One Horse Gulch. Unlike Gabriel's previous evening
visitor, he did not glance around him, but fixed a pair of keen,
half-humorous, half-interrogating grey eyes upon his host's face, and
kept them there. The habitual expression of his features was serious,
except for a certain half-nervous twitching at the left corner of his
mouth, which continued usually, until he stopped and passed his hand
softly across it. The impression always left on the spectator was, that
he had wiped away a smile, as some people do a tear.
"I don't think I ever before met you, Gabriel," he said, advancing and
offering his hand. "My name is Maxwell. I think you've heard of me. I
have come for a little talk on a matter of business."
The blank dismay of Gabriel's face did not escape him, nor the gesture
with which he motioned to Olly to retire.
"It's quite evident," he said to himself, "that the child knows nothing
of this, or is unprepared. I have taken him by surprise."
"If I mistake not, Gabriel," said Maxwell aloud, "your
little--er--girl--is as much concerned in this matter as yourself. Why
not let her remain?"
"No, no;" said Gabriel, now feeling perfectly convinced in the depths of
his conscience-stricken soul that Maxwell was here as the legal adviser
of the indignant Mrs. Markle. "No! Olly, run out and get some chips in
the wood-house agin to-morrow morning's fire. Run!"
Olly ran. Maxwell cast a look after the child, wiped his mouth, and
leaning his elbow on the table, fixed his eyes on Gabriel. "I have
called to-night, Gabriel, to see if we can arrange a certain matter
without trouble, and even--as I am employed against you--with as little
talk as possible. To be frank, I am entrusted with the papers in a legal
proceeding against you. Now, see here! is it necessary for me to say
what these proceedings are? Is it even necessary for me to give the name
of my client?"
Gabriel dropped his eyes, but even then the frank honesty of his nature
spoke for him. He raised his head and said simply--"No!"
Lawyer Maxwell was for a moment staggered, but only for a moment.
"Good," he said thoughtfully; "you are frank. Let me ask you now if, to
avoid legal proceedings, publicity, and scandal--and allow me to add,
the almost absolute certainty of losing in any suit that might be
brought against you--would you be willing to abandon this house and
claim at once, allowing it to go for damages in the past? If you would,
I think I could accept it for such. I think I could promise that even
this question of a closer relationship would not come up. Briefly, _she_
might keep her name, and _you_ might keep yours, and you would remain to
each other as strangers. What do you say?"
Gabriel rose quickly and took the lawyer's hands with a tremulous grasp.
"You're a kind man, Mr. Maxwell," he said, shaking the lawyer's hand
vigorously; "a good man. It's a bad business, and you've made the best
of it. Ef you'd been my own lawyer instead o' hers, you couldn't hev
treated me better. I'll leave here at once. I've been thinking o' doing
it ever since this yer thing troubled me; but I'll go to-morrow. Ye can
hev the house, and all it contains. If I had anything else in a way of a
fee to offer ye, I'd do it. She kin hev the house and all that they is
of it. And then nothing will be said?"
"Not a word," said Maxwell, examining Gabriel curiously.
"No talk--nothin' in the newspapers?" continued Gabriel.
"Your conduct toward her and your attitude in this whole affair will be
kept a profound secret, unless you happen to betray it yourself and that
is my one reason for advising you to leave here."
"I'll do it--to-morrow," said Gabriel, rubbing his hands. "Wouldn't you
like to have me sign some bit o' paper?"
"No, no," said the lawyer, wiping his mouth with his hand, and looking
at Gabriel as if he belonged to some entirely new species. "Let me
advise you, as a friend, to sign no paper that might be brought against
you hereafter. Your simple abandonment of the claim and house is
sufficient for our purposes. I will make out no papers in the case until
Thursday; by that time I expect to find no one to serve them on. You
understand?"
Gabriel nodded, and wrung the lawyer's hand warmly.
Maxwell walked toward the door, still keeping his glance fixed on
Gabriel's clear, honest eyes. On the threshold he paused, and leaning
against it, wiped his mouth with a slow gesture, and said--"From all I
can hear, Gabriel, you are a simple, honest fellow, and I frankly
confess to you, but for the admission you have made to me, I would have
thought you incapable of attempting to wrong a woman. I should have
supposed it some mistake. I am not a judge of the motives of men; I am
too old a lawyer, and too familiar with things of this kind to be
surprised at men's motives, or even to judge their rights or wrongs by
my own. But now that we understand each other, would you mind telling me
what was your motive for this peculiar and monstrous form of deception?
Understand me; it will not alter my opinion of you, which is, that you
are not a bad man. But I am curious to know how you could deliberately
set about to wrong this woman; what was the motive?"
Gabriel's face flushed deeply. Then he lifted his eyes and pointed to
the screen. The lawyer followed the direction of his finger, and saw
Olly standing in the doorway.
Lawyer Maxwell smiled. "It is the sex, anyway," he said to himself;
"perhaps a little younger than I supposed; of course, his own child." He
nodded again, smiled at Olly, and with the consciousness of a
professional triumph, blent with a certain moral satisfaction that did
not always necessarily accompany his professional success, he passed out
into the night.
Gabriel avoided conversation with Olly until late in the evening. When
she had taken her accustomed seat at his feet before the fire, she came
directly to the point. "What did he want, Gabe?"
"Nothing partickler," said Gabriel, with an affectation of supreme
indifference. "I was thinking, Olly, that I'd tell you a story. It's a
long time since I told one." It had been Gabriel's habit to improve
these precious moments by relating the news of the camp, or the current
topics of the day, artfully imparted as pure fiction; but since his
pre-occupation with Mrs. Markle, he had lately omitted it.
Olly nodded her head, and Gabriel went on--
"Once upon a time they lived a man ez hed lived and would live--for thet
was wot was so sing'ler about him--all alone, 'cept for a little sister
ez this man hed, wot he loved very dearly. They was no one ez this man
would ever let ring in, so to speak, between him and this little sister,
and the heaps o' private confidence, and the private talks about this
and thet, thet this yer man hed with this little sister, was wonderful
to behold."
"Was it a real man--a pure man?" queried Olly.
"The man was a real man, but the little sister, I oughter say, was a
kind o' fairy, you know, Olly, ez hed a heap o' power to do good to this
yer man, unbeknownst to him and afore his face. They lived in a sorter
paliss in the woods, this yer man and his sister. And one day this yer
man hed a heap o' troubil come upon him that was sich ez would make him
leave this beautiful paliss, and he didn't know how to let on to his
little sister about it; and so he up, and he sez to her, sez he,
'Gloriana'--thet was her name--'Gloriana,' sez he, 'we must quit this
beautiful paliss and wander into furrin parts, and the reason why is a
secret ez I can't tell ye.' And this yer little sister jest ups and sez,
'Wot's agreeable to you, brother, is agreeable to me, for we is
everything to each other the wide world over, and variety is the spice
o' life, and I'll pack my traps to-morrow.' And she did. For why, Olly?
Why, don't ye see, this yer little sister was a fairy, and knowed it all
without bein' told. And they went away to furrin parts and strange
places, war they built a more beautiful paliss than the other was, and
they lived thar peaceful like and happy all the days o' their life."
"And thar wasn't any old witch of a Mrs. Markle to bother them. When are
ye goin', Gabe?" asked the practical Olly.
"I thought to-morrow," said Gabriel, helplessly abandoning all allegory,
and looking at his sister in respectful awe, "thet ez, I reckoned, Olly,
to get to Casey's in time to take the arternoon stage up to Marysville."
"Well," said Olly, "then I'm goin' to bed now."
"Olly," said Gabriel reproachfully, as he watched the little figure
disappear behind the canvas, "ye didn't kiss me fur good-night."
Olly came back. "You ole Gabe--you!" she said patronisingly, as she ran
her fingers through his tangled curls, and stooped to bestow a kiss on
his forehead from an apparently immeasurable moral and intellectual
height--"You old big Gabe, what would you do without me, I'd like to
know?"
The next morning Gabriel was somewhat surprised at observing Olly,
immediately after the morning meal, proceed gravely to array herself in
the few more respectable garments that belonged to her wardrobe. Over a
white muslin frock, yellow and scant with age, she had tied a scarf of
glaring cheap pink ribbon, and over this again she had secured, by the
aid of an enormous tortoiseshell brooch, a large black and white check
shawl of her mother's, that even repeated folding could not reduce in
size. She then tied over her yellow curls a large straw hat trimmed with
white and yellow daisies and pale-green ribbon, and completed her toilet
by unfurling over her shoulder a small yellow parasol. Gabriel, who had
been watching these preparations in great concern, at last ventured to
address the _bizarre_ but pretty little figure before him.
"War you goin', Olly?"
"Down the gulch to say good-bye to the Reed gals. 'Taint the square
thing to vamose the ranch without lettin' on to folks."
"Ye ain't goin' near Mrs. Markle's, are ye?" queried Gabriel, in
deprecatory alarm.
Olly turned a scornful flash of her clear blue eye upon her brother, and
said curtly, "Ketch me!"
There was something so appalling in her quickness, such a sudden
revelation of quaint determination in the lines of her mouth and
eyebrows, that Gabriel could say no more. Without a word he watched the
yellow sunshade and flapping straw hat with its streaming ribbons slowly
disappear down the winding descent of the hill. And then a sudden and
grotesque sense of dependence upon the child--an appreciation of some
reserved quality in her nature hitherto unsuspected by him--something
that separated them now, and in the years to come would slowly widen the
rift between them--came upon him with such a desolating sense of
loneliness that it seemed unendurable. He did not dare to re-enter or
look back upon the cabin, but pushed on vaguely toward his claim on the
hillside. On his way thither he had to pass a solitary red-wood tree
that he had often noticed, whose enormous bulk belittled the rest of the
forest; yet, also, by reason of its very isolation had acquired a
certain lonely pathos that was far beyond the suggestion of its heroic
size. It seemed so imbecile, so gratuitously large, so unproductive of
the good that might be expected of its bulk, so unlike the smart spruces
and pert young firs and larches that stood beside it, that Gabriel
instantly accepted it as a symbol of himself, and could not help
wondering if there were not some other locality where everything else
might be on its own plane of existence. "If I war to go thar," said
Gabriel to himself, "I wonder if I might not suit better than I do yer,
and be of some sarvice to thet child." He pushed his way through the
underbrush, and stood upon the ledge that he had first claimed on his
arrival at One Horse Gulch. It was dreary--it was unpromising--a vast
stony field high up in air, covered with scattered boulders of dark
iron-grey rock. Gabriel smiled bitterly. "Any other man but me couldn't
hev bin sich a fool as to preëmpt sich a claim fur gold. P'r'aps it's
all for the best that I'm short of it now," said Gabriel, as he turned
away, and descended the hill to his later claim in the gulch, which
yielded him that pittance known in the mining dialect as "grub."
It was nearly three o'clock before he returned to the cabin with the few
tools that he had gathered. When he did so, he found Olly awaiting him,
with a slight flush of excitement on her cheek, but no visible evidences
of any late employment to be seen in the cabin.
"Ye don't seem to have been doin' much packin', Olly," said
Gabriel--"tho' thar ain't, so to speak, much to pack up."
"Thar ain't no use in packin', Gabe," replied Olly, looking directly
into the giant's bashful eyes.
"No use?" echoed Gabriel.
"No sort o' use," said Olly decidedly. "We ain't goin', Gabe, and
that's the end on't. I've been over to see Lawyer Maxwell, and I've made
it all right!"
Gabriel dropped speechless into a chair, and gazed, open-mouthed, at his
sister. "I've made it all right, Gabe," continued Olly coolly, "you'll
see. I jest went over thar this morning, and hed a little talk with the
lawyer, and giv him a piece o' my mind about Mrs. Markle--and jest
settled the whole thing."
"Good Lord! Olly, what did you say?"
"Say?" echoed Olly. "I jest up and told him everythin' I knew about thet
woman, and I never told you, Gabe, the half of it. I jest sed ez how
she'd been runnin' round arter you ever sence she first set eyes on you,
when you was nussin' her husband wot died. How you never ez much ez
looked at her ontil I set you up to it! How she used to come round yer,
and sit and sit and look at you, Gabe, and kinder do this et ye over her
shoulder."--(Here Olly achieved an admirable imitation of certain arch
glances of Mrs. Markle that would have driven that estimable lady
frantic with rage, and even at this moment caused the bashful blood of
Gabriel to fly into his very eyes.) "And how she used to let on all
sorts of excuses to get you over thar, and how you refoosed! And wot a
deceitful, old, mean, disgustin' critter she was enny way!" and here
Olly paused for want of breath.
"And wot did he say?" said the equally breathless Gabriel.
"Nothin' at first! Then he laughed and laughed, and laughed till I
thought he'd bust! And then--let me see," reflected the conscientious
Olly, "he said thar was some 'absurd blunder and mistake'--that's jest
what he called thet Mrs. Markle, Gabe--those was his very words! And
then he set up another yell o' laughin', and somehow, Gabe, I got to
laughin', and she got to laughin' too!" And Olly laughed at the
recollection.
"Who's _she_?" asked Gabriel, with a most lugubrious face.
"O Gabe! you think everybody's Mrs. Markle," said Olly swiftly. "_She_
was a lady ez was with thet Lawyer Maxwell, ez heerd it all. Why, Lord!
she seemed to take ez much interest in it as the lawyer. P'r'aps," said
Olly, with a slight degree of conscious pride as _raconteur_, "p'r'aps
it was the way I told it. I was _thet_ mad, Gabe, and sassy!"
"And what did he say?" continued Gabriel, still ruefully, for to him, as
to most simple, serious natures devoid of any sense of humour, all this
inconsequent hilarity looked suspicious.
"Why, he was fur puttin' right over here 'to explain,' ez he called it,
but the lady stopped him, and sed somethin' low I didn't get to hear.
Oh, she must be a partickler friend o' his, Gabe--for he did everythin'
thet she said. And she said I was to go back and say thet we needn't
hurry ourselves to git away at all. And thet's the end of it, Gabe."
"But didn't he say anythin' more, Olly?" said Gabriel anxiously.
"No. He begin to ask me some questions about old times and Starvation
Camp, and I'd made up my mind to disremember all them things ez I told
you, Gabe, fur I'm jest sick of being called a cannon-ball, so I jest
disremembered everything ez fast ez he asked it, until he sez, sez he to
this lady, 'she evidently knows nothin' o' the whole thing.' But the
lady had been tryin' to stop his askin' questions, and he'd been kinder
signin' to me not to answer too. Oh, she's cute, Gabe; I could see thet
ez soon ez I set down."
"What did she look like, Olly?" said Gabriel, with an affectation of
carelessness, but still by no means yet entirely relieved in his mind.
"Oh, she didn't look like Mrs. Markle, Gabe, or any o' thet kind. A
kinder short woman, with white teeth, and a small waist, and good
clo'es. I didn't sort o' take to her much, Gabe, though she was very
kind to me. I don't know ez I could say ezackly what she did look like;
I reckon thar ain't anybody about yer looks like she. Saints and
goodness! Gabe, that's her now; thar she is!"
Something darkened the doorway. Gabriel, looking up, beheld the woman he
had saved in the cañon. It was Madame Devarges!
BOOK III.
_THE LEAD._
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD PIONEER OF '49.
A thick fog, dense, impenetrable, bluish-grey and raw, marked the advent
of the gentle summer of 1854 on the California coast. The brief immature
spring was scarcely yet over; there were flowers still to be seen on the
outlying hills around San Francisco, and the wild oats were yet green on
the Contra Costa mountains. But the wild oats were hidden under a dim
India-inky veil, and the wild flowers accepted the joyless embraces of
the fog with a staring waxen rigidity. In short, the weather was so
uncomfortable that the average Californian was more than ever inclined
to impress the stranger aggressively with the fact that fogs were
healthy, and that it was the "finest climate on the earth."
Perhaps no one was better calculated or more accustomed to impress the
stranger with this belief than Mr. Peter Dumphy, banker and capitalist.
His outspoken faith in the present and future of California was
unbounded. His sincere convictions that no country or climate was ever
before so signally favoured, his intoleration of any criticism or belief
to the contrary, made him a representative man. So positive and
unmistakable was his habitual expression on these subjects, that it was
impossible to remain long in his presence without becoming impressed
with the idea that any other condition of society, climate, or
civilization than that which obtained in California, was a mistake.
Strangers were brought early to imbibe from this fountain; timid and
weak Californians, in danger of a relapse, had their faith renewed and
their eyesight restored by bathing in this pool that Mr. Dumphy kept
always replenished. Unconsciously, people at last got to echoing Mr.
Dumphy's views as their own, and much of the large praise that appeared
in newspapers, public speeches, and correspondence, was first voiced by
Dumphy. It must not be supposed that Mr. Dumphy's positiveness of
statement and peremptory manner were at all injurious to his social
reputation. Owing to that suspicion with which most frontier communities
regard polite concession and suavity of method, Mr. Dumphy's brusque
frankness was always accepted as genuine. "You always know what Pete
Dumphy means," was the average criticism. "He ain't goin' to lie to
please any man." To a conceit that was so freely and shamelessly
expressed as to make hesitating and cautious wisdom appear weak and
unmanly beside it, Mr. Dumphy added the rare quality of perfect
unconscientiousness unmixed with any adulterating virtue. It was with
such rare combative qualities as these that Mr. Dumphy sat that morning
in his private office and generally opposed the fog without, or rather
its influence upon his patrons and society at large. The face he offered
to it was a strong one, although superficially smooth, for since the
reader had the honour of his acquaintance, he had shaved off his beard,
as a probably unnecessary indication of character. It was still early,
but he had already despatched much business with that prompt decision
which made even an occasional blunder seem heroic. He was signing a
letter that one of his clerks had brought him, when he said briskly,
without looking up--"Send Mr. Ramirez in."
Mr. Ramirez, who had already called for three successive days without
obtaining an audience of Dumphy, entered the private room with an
excited sense of having been wronged, which, however, instantly
disappeared, as far as external manifestation was concerned, on his
contact with the hard-headed, aggressive, and prompt Dumphy.
"How do?" said Dumphy, without looking up from his desk. Mr. Ramirez
uttered some objection to the weather, and then took a seat uneasily
near Dumphy. "Go on," said Dumphy, "I can listen."
"It is I who came to listen," said Mr. Ramirez, with great suavity. "It
is of the news I would hear."
"Yes," said Mr. Dumphy, signing his name rapidly to several documents,
"Yes, _Yes_, YES." He finished them, turned rapidly upon Ramirez, and
said "Yes!" again, in such a positive manner as to utterly shipwreck
that gentleman's self-control. "Ramirez!" said Dumphy abruptly, "how
much have you got in that thing?"
Mr. Ramirez, still floating on a sea of conjecture, could only say, "Eh!
Ah! It is what?"
"How _deep_ are you? How much would you _lose_?"
Mr. Ramirez endeavoured to fix his eyes upon Dumphy's. "How--much--would
I lose?--if how? If what?"
"What--money--have--you--got--in--it?" said Mr. Dumphy, emphasising each
word sharply with the blunt end of his pen on the desk.
"No money! I have much interest in the success of Madame Devarges!"
"Then you're not 'in' much! That's lucky for you. Read that
letter.--Show him in!"
The last remark was in reply to a mumbled interrogatory of the clerk,
who had just entered. Perhaps it was lucky for Mr. Ramirez that Mr.
Dumphy's absorption with his new visitor prevented his observation of
his previous visitor's face. As he read the letter, Ramirez's face first
turned to an ashen-grey hue, then to a livid purple, then he smacked his
dry lips thrice, and said "_Carámba!_" then with burning eyes he turned
towards Dumphy.
"You have read this?" he asked, shaking the letter towards Dumphy.
"One moment," interrupted Dumphy, finishing the conversation with his
latest visitor, and following him to the door. "Yes," he continued,
returning to his desk and facing Ramirez. "Yes!" Mr. Ramirez could only
shake the letter and smile in a ghastly way at Dumphy. "Yes," said
Dumphy, reaching forward and coolly taking the letter out of Ramirez's
hand, "Yes. Seems she is going to get married," he continued, consulting
the letter. "Going to marry the brother, the man in possession. That
puts you all right; any way, the cat jumps; and it lets _you_ out." With
the air of having finished the interview, Mr. Dumphy quietly returned
the letter, followed by Ramirez's glaring eyes, to a pigeon-hole in his
desk, and tapped his desk with his penholder.
"And you--you?" gasped Ramirez hoarsely, "you?"
"Oh, _I_ didn't go into it a dollar. Yet it was a good investment. She
could have made out a strong case. You had possession of the deed or
will, hadn't you? There was no evidence of the existence of the other
woman," continued Mr. Dumphy, in his usually loud voice, overlooking the
cautionary gestures of Mr. Ramirez with perfect indifference. "Hello!
How do?" he added to another visitor. "I was sending you a note." Mr.
Ramirez rose. His long finger nails were buried in the yellow flesh of
his palms. His face was quite bloodless, and his lips were dry. "What's
your hurry?" said Dumphy, looking up. "Come in again; there's another
matter I want you to look into, Ramirez! We've got some money out on
claim that ought to have one or two essential papers to make it right. I
daresay they're lying round somewhere where you can find 'em. Draw on me
for the expense." Mr. Dumphy did not say this slyly, nor with any dark
significance, but with perfect frankness. Virtually it said--"You're a
scamp, so am I; whether or not this other man who overhears us is one
likewise, it matters not." He took his seat again, turned to the latest
comer, and became oblivious of his previous companion.
Luckily for Mr. Ramirez, when he reached the street he had recovered the
control of his features, if not his natural colour. At least the fog,
which seemed to lend a bluish-grey shade to all complexions, allowed his
own livid cheek to pass unnoticed. He walked quickly, and it appeared
almost unconsciously towards the water, for it was not until he reached
the steamboat wharf that he knew where he was. He seemed to have taken
one step from Mr. Dumphy's office to the pier. There was nothing between
these two objects in his consciousness. The interval was utterly
annihilated. The steamboat did not leave for Sacramento until eight that
evening, and it was only ten o'clock now. He had been conscious of this
as he walked, but he could not have resisted this one movement, even if
a futile one, towards the object of his revengeful frenzy. Ten hours to
wait--ten hours to be passive, inactive--to be doing nothing! How could
he pass the time? He could sharpen his knife. He could buy a new one. He
could purchase a better pistol. He remembered passing a gunsmith's shop
with a display of glittering weapons in its window. He retraced his
steps, and entered the shop, spending some moments in turning over the
gunsmith's various wares. Especially was he fascinated by a long
broad-bladed bowie-knife. "My own make," said the tradesman, with
professional pride, passing a broad, leathery thumb along the keen edge
of the blade. "It'll split a half-dollar. See!"
He threw a half-dollar on the counter, and with a quick, straight,
down-darting stab pierced it in halves. Mr. Ramirez was pleased, and
professed a desire to make the experiment himself. But the point
slipped, sending the half-dollar across the shop and cutting a long
splintering furrow in the counter. "Yer narves ain't steady. And ye try
too hard," said the man, coolly. "Thet's the way it's apt to be with you
gents. Ye jest work yourself up into a fever 'bout a little thing like
thet, ez if everything depended on it. Don't make sich a big thing of
it. Take it easy like this," and with a quick, firm, workmanlike stroke
the tradesman repeated the act successfully. Mr. Ramirez bought the
knife. As the man wrapped it up in paper, he remarked with philosophic
kindness--"I wouldn't try to do it agin this mornin'. It's early in the
day, and I've noticed thet gents ez hez been runnin' free all night
ain't apt to do theirselves justice next mornin'. Take it quietly alone
by yourself, this arternoon; don't think you're goin' to do anythin'
big, and you'll fetch it, sure!"
When Mr. Ramirez was in the street again he looked at his watch. Eleven
o'clock! Only one hour gone. He buttoned his coat tightly over the knife
in his breast pocket, and started on again feverishly. Twelve o'clock
found him rambling over the sand hills near the Mission Dolores. In one
of the by-streets he came upon a woman looking so like the one that
filled all his thoughts, that he turned to look at her again with a
glance so full of malevolence that she turned from him in terror. This
circumstance, his agitation, and the continual dryness of his lips sent
him into a saloon, where he drank freely, without, however, increasing
or abating his excitement. When he returned to the crowded streets again
he walked quickly, imagining that his manner was noticed by others, in
such intervals as he snatched from the contemplation of a single
intention. There were several ways of doing it. One was to tax her with
her deceit and then kill her in the tempest of his indignation. Another
and a more favourable thought was to surprise her and her new
accomplice--for Mr. Ramirez, after the manner of most jealous reasoners,
never gave her credit for any higher motive than that she had shown to
him--and kill them both. Another and a later idea was to spend the
strength of his murderous passion upon the man, and then to enjoy her
discomfiture, the failure of her plans, and perhaps her appeals for
forgiveness. But it would still be two days before he could reach them.
Perhaps they were already married. Perhaps they would be gone! In all
this wild, passionate, and tumultuous contemplation of an effect, there
never had been for a single moment in his mind the least doubt of the
adequacy of the cause. That he was a _dupe_,--a hopeless, helpless
dupe,--was sufficient. Since he had read the letter, his
self-consciousness had centred upon a single thought, expressed to him
in a single native word, "Bobo." It was continually before his eyes. He
spelled it on the signs in the street. It kept up a dull monotonous echo
in his ears. "Bobo." Ah! she should see!
It was past noon, and the fog had deepened. Afar from the bay came the
sounds of bells and whistles. If the steamer should not go? If she
should be delayed, as often happened, for several hours? He would go
down to the wharf and inquire. In the meantime, let the devil seize the
fog! Might the Holy St. Bartholomew damn for ever the cowardly dog of a
captain and the coyote crew who would refuse to go! He came sharply
enough down Commercial Street, and then, when opposite the Arcade
Saloon, with the instinct that leads desperate men into desperate
places, he entered and glared vindictively around him. The immense room,
bright with lights and glittering with gilding and mirrors, seemed quiet
and grave in contrast with the busy thoroughfare without. It was still
too early for the usual _habitués_ of the place; only a few of the long
gambling tables were occupied. There was only a single _monte_ bank
"open," and to this Ramirez bent his steps with the peculiar
predilections of his race. It so chanced that Mr. Jack Hamlin was
temporarily in charge of the interests of this bank, and was dealing in
a listless, perfunctory manner. It may be parenthetically remarked that
his own game was faro. His present position was one of pure friendliness
to the absent dealer, who was taking his dinner above stairs. Ramirez
flung a piece of gold on the table and lost. Again he attempted fortune
and lost. He lost the third time. Then his pent-up feelings found vent
in the characteristic "_Carámba!_" Mr. Jack Hamlin looked up. It was not
the oath, it was not the expression of ill-humour, both of which were
common enough in Mr. Hamlin's experience, but a certain distinguishing
quality in the voice which awoke Jack's peculiarly retentive memory. He
looked up, and, to borrow his own dialect, at once "spotted" the owner
of the voice. He made no outward sign of his recognition, but quietly
pursued the game. In the next deal Mr. Ramirez won! Mr. Hamlin quietly
extended his _croupe_ and raked down Mr. Ramirez's money with the
losers'.
As Mr. Hamlin doubtless had fully expected, Mr. Ramirez rose with a
passionate scream of rage. Whereat Mr. Hamlin coolly pushed back Mr.
Ramirez's stake and winnings without looking up. Leaving it upon the
table, Ramirez leaped to the gambler's side.
"You would insult me, so! You would ch--ee--at! eh? You would take my
money, so!" he said, hoarsely, gesticulating passionately with one hand,
while with the other he grasped as wildly in his breast.
Mr. Jack Hamlin turned a pair of dark eyes on the speaker, and said,
quietly, "Sit down, Johnny!"
With the pent-up passion of the last few hours boiling in his blood,
with the murderous intent of the morning still darkling in his mind,
with the passionate sense of a new insult stinging him to madness, Mr.
Ramirez should have struck the gambler to the earth. Possibly that was
his intention as he crossed to his side; possibly that was his
conviction as he heard himself--_he_--Victor Ramirez! whose presence in
two days should strike terror to two hearts in One Horse
Gulch!--addressed as Johnny! But he looked into the eyes of Mr. Hamlin
and hesitated. What he saw there I cannot say. They were handsome eyes,
clear and well opened, and had been considered by several members of a
fond and confiding sex as peculiarly arch and tender. But, it must be
confessed, Mr. Ramirez returned to his seat without doing anything.
"Ye don't know that man," said Mr. Hamlin to the two players nearest
him, in a tone of the deepest confidence, which was, however, singularly
enough, to be heard distinctly by every one at the table, including
Ramirez. "You don't know him, but I do! He's a desprit character,"
continued Mr. Hamlin, glancing at him and quietly shuffling the cards,
"a very desprit character! Make your game, gentlemen! Keeps a cattle
ranch in Sonoma, and a private graveyard whar he buries his own dead.
They call him the 'Yaller Hawk of Sonoma.' He's outer sorts jest now:
probably jest killed some one up thar, and smells blood." Mr. Ramirez
smiled a ghastly smile, and affected to examine the game minutely and
critically as Mr. Hamlin paused to rake in the gold. "He's artful--is
Johnny!" continued Mr. Hamlin, in the interval of shuffling, "artful and
sly! Partikerly when he's after blood! See him sittin' thar and smilin'.
He doesn't want to interrupt the game. He knows, gentlemen, thet in five
minutes from now, Jim will be back here and I'll be free. Thet's what
he's waitin' for! Thet's what's the matter with the 'Yaller Slaughterer
of Sonoma!' Got his knife ready in his breast, too. Done up in brown
paper to keep it clean. He's mighty pertikler 'bout his weppins is
Johnny. Hez a knife for every new man." Ramirez rose with an attempt at
jocularity, and pocketed his gains. Mr. Hamlin affected not to notice
him until he was about to leave the table. "He's goin' to wait for me
outside," he exclaimed. "In five minutes, Johnny," he called to
Ramirez's retreating figure. "If you can't wait, I'll expect to see you
at the Marysville Hotel next week, Room No. 95, the next room, Johnny,
the next room!"
The Mr. Ramirez who reached the busy thoroughfare again was so different
from the Mr. Ramirez who twenty minutes before had entered the Arcade
that his identity might have easily been doubted. He did not even
breathe in the same way; his cheek, although haggard, had resumed its
colour; his eyes, which hitherto had been fixed and contemplative, had
returned to their usual restless vivacity. With the exception that at
first he walked quickly on leaving the saloon, and once or twice
hurriedly turned to see if anybody were following him, his manner was
totally changed. And this without effusion of blood, or the indulgence
of an insatiable desire for revenge! As I prefer to deal with Mr.
Ramirez without affecting to know any more of that gentleman than he did
himself, I am unable to explain any more clearly than he did to himself
the reason for this change in his manner, or the utter subjection of his
murderous passion. When it is remembered that for several hours he had
had unlimited indulgence, without opposition, in his own instincts, but
that for the last twenty minutes he had some reason to doubt their
omnipotence, perhaps some explanation may be adduced. I only know that
by half-past six Mr. Ramirez had settled in his mind that physical
punishment of his enemies was not the most efficacious means of revenge,
and that at half-past seven he had concluded _not_ to take the
Sacramento boat. And yet for the previous six hours I have reason to
believe that Mr. Ramirez was as sincere a murderer as ever suffered the
penalty of his act, or to whom circumstances had not offered a Mr.
Hamlin to act upon a constitutional cowardice.
Mr. Ramirez proceeded leisurely down Montgomery Street until he came to
Pacific Street. At the corner of the street his way was for a moment
stopped by a rattling team and waggon that dashed off through the fog in
the direction of the wharf. Mr. Ramirez recognised the express and mail
for the Sacramento boat. But Mr. Ramirez did not know that the express
contained a letter which ran as follows--
"DEAR MADAM,--Yours of the 10th received, and contents noted.
Am willing to make our services contingent upon your success.
We believe your present course will be quite as satisfactory as
the plan you first proposed. Would advise you not to give a
personal interview to Mr. Ramirez, but refer him to Mr. Gabriel
Conroy. Mr. Ramirez's manner is such as to lead us to suppose
that he might offer violence, unless withheld by the presence
of a third party.--Yours respectfully,
"PETER DUMPHY."
CHAPTER II.
A CLOUD OF WITNESSES.
The street into which Ramirez plunged at first sight appeared almost
impassable, and but for a certain regularity in the parallels of
irregular, oddly-built houses, its original intention as a thoroughfare
might have been open to grave doubt. It was dirty, it was muddy, it was
ill-lighted; it was rocky and precipitous in some places, and sandy and
monotonous in others. The grade had been changed two or three times, and
each time apparently for the worse, but always with a noble disregard
for the dwellings, which were invariably treated as an accident in the
original design, or as obstacles to be overcome at any hazard. The near
result of this large intent was to isolate some houses completely, to
render others utterly inaccessible except by scaling ladders, and to
produce the general impression that they were begun at the top and built
down. The remoter effect was to place the locality under a social ban,
and work a kind of outlawry among the inhabitants. Several of the houses
were originally occupied by the Spanish native Californians, who, with
the conservative instincts of their race, still clung to their _casas_
after the Americans had flown to pastures new and less rocky and
inaccessible beyond. Their vacant places were again filled by other
native Californians, through that social law which draws the members of
an inferior and politically degraded race into gregarious solitude and
isolation, and the locality became known as the Spanish Quarter. That
they lived in houses utterly inconsistent with their habits and tastes,
that they affected a locality utterly foreign to their inclinations or
customs, was not the least pathetic and grotesque element to a
contemplative observer.
Before, or rather beneath one of these structures, Mr. Ramirez stopped,
and began the ascent of a long flight of wooden steps, that at last
brought him to the foundations of the dwelling. Another equally long
exterior staircase brought him at last to the verandah or gallery of the
second story, the first being partly hidden by an embankment. Here Mr.
Ramirez discovered another flight of narrower steps leading down to a
platform before the front door. It was open. In the hall-way two or
three dark-faced men were lounging, smoking _cigaritos_, and enjoying,
in spite of the fog, the apparently unsociable _négligé_ of shirt
sleeves and no collars. At the open front windows of the parlour two or
three women were sitting, clad in the lightest and whitest of flounced
muslin skirts, with heavy shawls over their heads and shoulders, as if
summer had stopped at their waists, like an equator.
The house was feebly lighted, or rather the gloom of yellowish-browned
walls and dark furniture, from which all lustre and polish had been
smoked, made it seem darker. Nearly every room and all the piazzas were
dim with the yellow haze of burning _cigaritos_. There were light brown
stains on the shirt sleeves of the men, there were yellowish streaks on
the otherwise spotless skirts of the women; every masculine and feminine
forefinger and thumb was steeped to its first joint with yellow. The
fumes of burnt paper and tobacco permeated the whole house like some
religious incense, through which occasionally struggled an inspiration
of red peppers and garlic.
Two or three of the loungers addressed Ramirez in terms of grave
recognition. One of the women--the stoutest--appeared at the doorway,
holding her shawl tightly over her shoulders with one hand, as if to
conceal a dangerous dishabille above the waist and playfully shaking a
black fan at the young man with the other hand, applied to him the
various epithets of "Ingrate," "Traitor," and "Judas," with great
vivacity and volubility. Then she faced him coquettishly. "And after so
long, whence now, thou little blackguard?"
"It is of business my heart and soul," exclaimed Ramirez, with hasty and
somewhat perfunctory gallantry. "Who is above?"--"Those who testify."
"And Don Pedro?"
"He is there, and the Señor Perkins."
"Good. I will go on after a little," he nodded apologetically, as he
hastily ascended the staircase. On the first landing above he paused,
turned doubtfully toward the nearest door, and knocked hesitatingly.
There was no response. Ramirez knocked again more sharply and decidedly.
This resulted in a quick rattling of the lock, the sudden opening of the
door, and the abrupt appearance of a man in ragged alpaca coat and
frayed trousers. He stared fiercely at Ramirez, said in English, "What
in h----! next door!" and as abruptly slammed the door in Ramirez's
face. Ramirez entered hastily the room indicated by the savage stranger,
and was at once greeted by a dense cloud of smoke and the sound of
welcoming voices.
Around a long table covered with quaint-looking legal papers, maps, and
parchments, a half-dozen men were seated. The greater number were past
the middle age, dark-featured and grizzle-haired, and one, whose
wrinkled face was the colour and texture of red-wood bark, was bowed
with decrepitude.
"He had one hundred and two years day before yesterday. He is the
principal witness to Micheltorrena's signature in the Castro claim,"
exclaimed Don Pedro.
"Is he able to remember?" asked Ramirez.
"Who knows?" said Don Pedro, shrugging his shoulder. "He will swear; it
is enough!"
"What animal have we in the next room?" asked Ramirez. "Is it wolf or
bear?"
"The Señor Perkins," said Don Pedro.
"Why is he?"
"He translates."
Here Ramirez related, with some vehemence how he mistook the room, and
the stranger's brusque salutation. The company listened attentively and
even respectfully. An American audience would have laughed. The present
company did not alter their serious demeanour; a breach of politeness to
a stranger was a matter of grave importance even to these doubtful
characters. Don Pedro explained--
"Ah, so it is believed that God has visited him here." He tapped his
forehead. "He is not of their country fashion at all. He has
punctuality, he has secrecy, he has the habitude. When strikes the clock
three he is here; when it strikes nine he is gone. Six hours to work in
that room! Ah, heavens! The quantity of work--it is astounding! Folios!
Volumes! Good! it is done. Punctually at nine of the night he takes up a
paper left on his desk by his _padrone_, in which is enwrapped ten
dollars--the golden eagle, and he departs for that day. They tell to me
that five dollars is gone at the gambling table, but no more! then five
dollars for subsistence--always the same. Always! Always! He is a
scholar--so profound, so admirable! He has the Spanish, the French,
perfect. He is worth his weight in gold to the lawyers--you
understand--but they cannot use him. To them he says--'I translate, lies
or what not! Who knows? I care not--but no more.' He is wonderful!"
The allusion to the gaming-table revived Victor's recollection, and his
intention in his present visit. "Thou hast told me, Don Pedro," he said,
lowering his voice in confidence, "how much is fashioned the testimony
of the witnesses in regard of the old land grants by the Governors and
Alcaldes. Good. Is it so?"
Don Pedro glanced around the room. "Of those that are here to-night five
will swear as they are prepared by me--you comprehend--and there is a
Governor, a Military Secretary, an Alcalde, a Comandante, and saints
preserve us! an Archbishop! They are respectable _caballeros_; but they
have been robbed, you comprehend, by the _Americanos_. What matters?
They have been taught a lesson. They will get the best price for their
memory. Eh? They will sell it where it pays best. Believe me, Victor; it
is so."
"Good," said Victor. "Listen; if there was a man--a brigand, a devil--an
American!--who had extorted from Pico a grant--you comprehend--a grant,
formal, and regular, and recorded--accepted of the Land Commission--and
some one, eh?--even myself, should say to you it is all wrong, my
friend, my brother--ah!"
"From Pico?" asked Don Pedro.
"_Si_, from Pico, in '47," responded Victor,--"a grant."
Don Pedro rose, opened a secretary in the corner, and took out some
badly-printed, yellowish blanks, with a seal in the right hand lower
corner.
"Custom House paper from Monterey," explained Don Pedro, "blank with
Governor Pico's signature and rubric. Comprehendest thou, Victor, my
friend? A second grant is simple enough!"
Victor's eyes sparkled.
"But two for the same land, my brother?"
Don Pedro shrugged his shoulders, and rolled a fresh _cigarito_.
"There are two for nearly every grant of his late Excellency. Art thou
certain, my brave friend, there are not _three_ to this of which thou
speakest? If there be but one--Holy Mother! it is nothing. Surely the
land has no value. Where is this modest property? How many leagues
square? Come, we will retire in this room, and thou mayest talk
undisturbed. There is excellent _aguardiente_ too, my Victor, come," and
Don Pedro rose, conducted Victor into a smaller apartment, and closed
the door.
Nearly an hour elapsed. During that interval the sound of Victor's
voice, raised in passionate recital, might have been heard by the
occupants of the larger room but that they were completely involved in
their own smoky atmosphere, and were perhaps politely oblivious of the
stranger's business. They chatted, compared notes, and examined legal
documents with the excited and pleased curiosity of men to whom business
and the present importance of its results was a novelty. At a few
minutes before nine Don Pedro reappeared with Victor. I grieve to say
that either from the reaction of the intense excitement of the morning,
from the active sympathy of his friend, or from the equally soothing
anodyne of _aguardiente_, he was somewhat incoherent, interjectional,
and effusive. The effect of excessive stimulation on passionate natures
like Victor's is to render them either maudlin or affectionate. Mr.
Ramirez was both. He demanded with tears in his eyes to be led to the
ladies. He would seek in the company of Manuela, the stout female before
introduced to the reader, that sympathy which an injured, deceived, and
confiding nature like his own so deeply craved.
On the staircase he ran against a stranger, precise, dignified,
accurately clothed and fitted--the "Señor Perkins" just released from
his slavery, a very different person from the one accidentally disclosed
to him an hour before, on his probable way to the gaming table, and his
habitual enjoyment on the evening of the day. In his maudlin condition,
Victor would have fain exchanged views with him in regard to the general
deceitfulness of the fair, and the misfortunes that attend a sincere
passion, but Don Pedro hurried him below into the parlour, and out of
the reach of the serenely contemptuous observation of the Señor
Perkins's eye. Once in the parlour, and in the presence of the
coquettish Manuela, who was still closely shawled, as if yet uncertain
and doubtful in regard to the propriety of her garments above the waist,
Victor, after a few vague remarks upon the general inability of the sex
to understand a nature so profoundly deep and so wildly passionate as
his own, eventually succumbed in a large black haircloth arm-chair, and
became helplessly and hopelessly comatose.
"We must find a bed here for him to-night," said the sympathising, but
practical Manuela; "he is not fit, poor imbecile, to be sent to his
hotel. Mother of God! what is this?"
In lifting him out of the chair into which he had subsided with a fatal
tendency to slide to the floor, unless held by main force, something had
fallen from his breast pocket, and Manuela had picked it up. It was the
bowie-knife he had purchased that morning.
"Ah!" said Manuela, "desperate little brigand: he has been among the
_Americanos_! Look, my uncle!"
Don Pedro took the weapon quietly from the brown hands of Manuela and
examined it coolly.
"It is new, my niece," he responded, with a slight shrug of his
shoulders. "The gloss is still upon its blade. We will take him to bed."
CHAPTER III.
THE CHARMING MRS. SEPULVIDA.
If there was a spot on earth of which the usual dead monotony of the
California seasons seemed a perfectly consistent and natural expression,
that spot was the ancient and time-honoured _pueblo_ and Mission of the
blessed St. Anthony. The changeless, cloudless, expressionless skies of
summer seemed to symbolise that aristocratic conservatism which repelled
all innovation, and was its distinguishing mark. The stranger who rode
into the _pueblo_, in his own conveyance,--for the instincts of San
Antonio refused to sanction the introduction of a stage-coach or
diligence that might bring into the town irresponsible and vagabond
travellers,--read in the faces of the idle, lounging _peons_ the fact
that the great _rancheros_ who occupied the outlying grants had refused
to sell their lands, long before he entered the one short walled street
and open plaza, and found that he was in a town where there was no hotel
or tavern, and that he was dependent entirely upon the hospitality of
some courteous resident for a meal or a night's lodging.
As he drew rein in the courtyard of the first large adobe dwelling, and
received the grave welcome of a strange but kindly face, he saw around
him everywhere the past unchanged. The sun shone as brightly and
fiercely on the long red tiles of the low roofs, that looked as if they
had been thatched with longitudinal slips of cinnamon, even as it had
shone for the last hundred years; the gaunt wolf-like dogs ran out and
barked at him as their fathers and mothers had barked at the preceding
stranger of twenty years before. There were the few wild half-broken
mustangs tethered by strong riatas before the verandah of the long low
_Fonda_, with the sunlight glittering on their silver trappings; there
were the broad, blank expanses of whitewashed adobe walls, as barren and
guiltless of record as the uneventful days, as monotonous and
expressionless as the staring sky above; there were the white,
dome-shaped towers of the Mission rising above the green of olives and
pear-trees, twisted, gnarled, and knotted with the rheumatism of age;
there was the unchanged strip of narrow white beach, and beyond, the
sea--vast, illimitable, and always the same. The steamers that crept
slowly up the darkening coast line were something remote, unreal and
phantasmal; since the Philippine galleon had left its bleached and
broken ribs in the sand in 1640, no vessel had, in the memory of man,
dropped anchor in the open roadstead below the curving Point of Pines,
and the white walls, and dismounted bronze cannon of the Presidio, that
looked blankly and hopelessly seaward.
For all this, the _pueblo_ of San Antonio was the cynosure of the
covetous American eye. Its vast leagues of fertile soil, its countless
herds of cattle, the semi-tropical luxuriance of its vegetation, the
salubrity of its climate, and the existence of miraculous mineral
springs, were at once a temptation and an exasperation to greedy
speculators of San Francisco. Happily for San Antonio, its square
leagues were held by only a few of the wealthiest native gentry. The
ranchos of the "Bear," of the "Holy Fisherman," of the "Blessed
Trinity," comprised all of the outlying lands, and their titles were
patented and secured to their native owners in the earlier days of the
American occupation, while their comparative remoteness from the
populous centres had protected them from the advances of foreign
cupidity. But one American had ever entered upon the possession and
enjoyment of this Californian Arcadia, and that was the widow of Don
José Sepulvida. Eighteen months ago the excellent Sepulvida had died at
the age of eighty-four, and left his charming young American wife the
sole mistress of his vast estate. Attractive, of a pleasant, social
temperament, that the Donna Maria should eventually bestow her hand and
the estate upon some loser _Americano_, who would bring ruin in the
hollow disguise of "improvements" to the established and conservative
life of San Antonio, was an event to be expected, feared, and, if
possible, dropped by fasting and prayer.
When the Donna Maria returned from a month's visit to San Francisco
after her year's widowhood, alone, and to all appearances as yet
unattached, it is said that a _Te Deum_ was sung at the Mission church.
The possible defection of the widow became still more important to San
Antonio, when it was remembered that the largest estate in the valley,
the "Rancho of the Holy Trinity," was held by another member of this
deceitful sex--the alleged natural half-breed daughter of a deceased
Governor--but happily preserved from the possible fate of the widow by
religious preoccupation and the habits of a recluse. That the irony of
Providence should leave the fate and future of San Antonio so largely
dependent upon the results of levity, and the caprice of a susceptible
sex, gave a sombre tinge to the gossip of the little _pueblo_--if the
grave, decorous discussion of Señores and Señoras could deserve that
name. Nevertheless it was believed by the more devout that a miraculous
interposition would eventually save San Antonio from the _Americanos_
and destruction, and it was alleged that the patron saint, himself
accomplished in the art of resisting a peculiar form of temptation,
would not scruple to oppose personally any undue weakness of vanity or
the flesh in helpless widowhood. Yet, even the most devout and trustful
believers, as they slyly slipped aside veil or _manta_, to peep
furtively at the Donna Maria entering chapel, in the heathenish
abominations of a Parisian dress and bonnet, and a face rosy with
self-consciousness and innocent satisfaction, felt their hearts sink
within them, and turned their eyes in mute supplication to the gaunt,
austere patron saint pictured on the chancel wall above them, who,
clutching a skull and crucifix as if for support, seemed to glare upon
the pretty stranger with some trepidation and a possible doubt of his
being able to resist the newer temptation.
As far as was consistent with Spanish courtesy, the Donna Maria was
subject to a certain mild espionage. It was even hinted by some of the
more conservative that a _duenna_ was absolutely essential to the proper
decorum of a lady representing such large social interests as the widow
Sepulvida, although certain husbands, who had already suffered from the
imperfect protection of this safeguard, offered some objection. But the
pretty widow, when this proposition was gravely offered by her ghostly
confessor, only shook her head and laughed. "A husband is the best
_duenna_, Father Felipe," she said, archly, and the conversation ended.
Perhaps it was as well that the gossips of San Antonio did not know how
imminent was their danger, or how closely imperilled were the vast
social interests of the _pueblo_ on the 3rd day of June 1854.
It was a bright, clear morning--so clear that the distant peaks of the
San Bruno mountains seemed to have encroached upon the San Antonio
valley overnight--so clear that the horizon line of the vast Pacific
seemed to take in half the globe beyond. It was a morning, cold, hard,
and material as granite, yet with a certain mica sparkle in its
quality--a morning full of practical animal life, in which bodily
exercise was absolutely essential to its perfect understanding and
enjoyment. It was scarcely to be wondered that the Donna Maria
Sepulvida, who was returning from a visit to her steward and major-domo,
attended by a single _vaquero_, should have thrown the reins forward on
the neck of her yellow mare, "Tita," and dashed at a wild gallop down
the white strip of beach that curved from the garden wall of the Mission
to the Point of Pines, a league beyond. "Concho," the venerable
_vaquero_, after vainly endeavouring to keep pace with his mistress's
fiery steed, and still more capricious fancy, shrugged his shoulders,
and subsided into a trot, and was soon lost among the shifting sand
dunes. Completely carried away by the exhilarating air and intoxication
of the exercise, the Donna Maria--with her brown hair shaken loose from
the confinement of her little velvet hat, the whole of a pretty foot,
and at times, I fear, part of a symmetrical ankle visible below the
flying folds of her grey riding-skirt, flecked here and there with the
racing spume of those Homeric seas--at last reached the Point of Pines
which defined the limits of the peninsula.
But when the gentle Mistress Sepulvida was within a hundred yards of the
Point she expected to round, she saw with some chagrin that the tide was
up, and that each dash of the breaking seas sent a thin, reaching film
of shining water up to the very roots of the pines. To her still further
discomfiture, she saw also that a smart-looking cavalier had likewise
reined in his horse on the other side of the Point, and was evidently
watching her movements with great interest, and, as she feared, with
some amusement. To go back would be to be followed by this stranger, and
to meet the cynical but respectful observation of Concho; to go forward,
at the worst, could only be a slight wetting, and a canter beyond the
reach of observation of the stranger, who could not in decency turn back
after her. All this Donna Maria saw with the swiftness of feminine
intuition, and, without apparently any hesitation in her face of her
intent, dashed into the surf below the Point.
Alas for feminine logic! Mistress Sepulvida's reasoning was perfect, but
her premises were wrong. Tita's first dash was a brave one, and carried
her half round the Point, the next was a simple flounder; the next
struggle sunk her to her knees, the next to her haunches. She was in a
quicksand!
"Let the horse go. Don't struggle! Take the end of your riata. Throw
yourself flat on the next wave, and let it take you out to sea!"
Donna Maria mechanically loosed the coil of hair rope which hung over
the pommel of her saddle. Then she looked around in the direction of the
voice. But she saw only a riderless horse, moving slowly along the
Point.
"Quick! Now then!" The voice was seaward now; where, to her frightened
fancy, some one appeared to be swimming. Donna Maria hesitated no
longer; with the recoil of the next wave, she threw herself forward and
was carried floating a few yards, and dropped again on the treacherous
sand.
"Don't move, but keep your grip on the riata!"
The next wave would have carried her back, but she began to comprehend,
and, assisted by the yielding sand, held her own and her breath until
the under-tow sucked her a few yards seaward; the sand was firmer now;
she floated a few yards farther, when her arm was seized; she was
conscious of being impelled swiftly through the water, of being dragged
out of the surge, of all her back hair coming down, that she had left
her boots behind her in the quicksand, that her rescuer was a stranger,
and a young man--and then she fainted.
When she opened her brown eyes again she was lying on the dry sand
beyond the Point, and the young man was on the beach below her, holding
both the horses--his own and Tita!
"I took the opportunity of getting your horse out. Relieved of your
weight, and loosened by the tide, he got his foot over the riata, and
Charley and I pulled him out. If I am not mistaken, this is Mrs.
Sepulvida?"
Donna Maria assented in surprise.
"And I imagine this is your man coming to look for you." He pointed to
Concho, who was slowly making his way among the sand dunes towards the
Point. "Let me assist you on your horse again. He need not know--nobody
need know--the extent of your disaster."
Donna Maria, still bewildered, permitted herself to be assisted to her
saddle again, despite the consequent terrible revelation of her shoeless
feet. Then she became conscious that she had not thanked her deliverer,
and proceeded to do so with such embarrassment that the stranger's
laughing interruption was a positive relief.
"You would thank me better if you were to set off in a swinging gallop
over those sun-baked, oven-like sand-hills, and so stave off a chill!
For the rest, I am Mr. Poinsett, one of your late husband's legal
advisers, here on business that will most likely bring us together--I
trust much more pleasantly to you than this. Good morning!"
He had already mounted his horse, and was lifting his hat. Donna Maria
was not a very clever woman, but she was bright enough to see that his
business _brusquerie_ was either the concealment of a man shy of women,
or the impertinence of one too familiar with them. In either case it was
to be resented.
How did she do it? Ah me! She took the most favourable hypothesis. She
pouted, I regret to say. Then she said--
"It was all your fault!"
"How?"
"Why, if you hadn't stood there, looking at me and criticising, I
shouldn't have tried to go round."
With this Parthian arrow she dashed off, leaving her rescuer halting
between a bow and a smile.
CHAPTER IV.
FATHER FELIPE.
When Arthur Poinsett, after an hour's rapid riding over the scorching
sand-hills, finally drew up at the door of the Mission Refectory, he had
so far profited by his own advice to Donna Maria as to be quite dry, and
to exhibit very little external trace of his late adventure. It is more
remarkable perhaps that there was very little internal evidence either.
No one who did not know the peculiar self-sufficiency of Poinsett's
individuality would be able to understand the singular mental and moral
adjustment of a man keenly alive to all new and present impressions, and
yet able to dismiss them entirely, without a sense of responsibility or
inconsistency. That Poinsett thought twice of the woman he had
rescued--that he ever reflected again on the possibilities or natural
logic of his act--during his ride, no one who thoroughly knew him would
believe. When he first saw Mrs. Sepulvida at the Point of Pines, he was
considering the possible evils or advantages of a change in the
conservative element of San Antonio; when he left her, he returned to
the subject again, and it fully occupied his thoughts until Father
Felipe stood before him in the door of the refectory. I do not mean to
say that he at all ignored a certain sense of self-gratulation in the
act, but I wish to convey the idea that all other considerations were
subordinate to this sense. And possibly also the feeling, unexpressed,
however, by any look or manner, that if _he_ was satisfied, everybody
else ought to be.
If Donna Maria had thought his general address a little too irreverent,
she would have been surprised at his greeting with Father Felipe. His
whole manner was changed to one of courteous and even reverential
consideration, of a boyish faith and trustfulness, of perfect confidence
and self-forgetfulness, and moreover was perfectly sincere. She would
have been more surprised to have noted that the object of Arthur's
earnestness was an old man, and that beyond a certain gentle and
courteous manner and refined bearing, he was unpicturesque and
odd-fashioned in dress, snuffy in the sleeves, and possessed and
inhabited a pair of shoes so large, shapeless, and inconsistent with the
usual requirements of that article as to be grotesque.
It was evident that Arthur's manner had previously predisposed the old
man in his favour. He held out two soft brown hands to the young man,
addressed him with a pleasant smile as "My son," and welcomed him to the
Mission.
"And why not this visit before?" asked Father Felipe, when they were
seated upon the little verandah that overlooked the Mission garden,
before their chocolate and _cigaritos_.
"I did not know I was coming until the day before yesterday. It seems
that some new grants of the old ex-Governor's have been discovered, and
that a patent is to be applied for. My partners being busy, I was
deputed to come here and look up the matter. To tell the truth, I was
glad of an excuse to see our fair client, or, at least, be disappointed,
as my partners have been, in obtaining a glimpse of the mysterious Donna
Dolores."
"Ah, my dear Don Arturo," said the Padre, with a slightly deprecatory
movement of his brown hands, "I fear you will be no more fortunate than
others. It is a penitential week with the poor child, and at such times
she refuses to see any one, even on business. Believe me, my dear boy,
you, like the others--more than the others--permit your imagination to
run away with your judgment. Donna Dolores' concealment of her face is
not to heighten or tempt the masculine curiosity, but alas!--poor
child--is only to hide the heathenish tattooings that deface her cheek.
You know she is a half-breed. Believe me, you are all wrong. It is
foolish, perhaps--vanity--who knows? but she is a _woman_--what would
you?" continued the sagacious Padre, emphasising the substantive with a
slight shrug worthy of his patron saint.
"But they say, for all that, she is very beautiful," continued Arthur,
with that mischievousness which was his habitual method of entertaining
the earnestness of others, and which he could not entirely forego, even
with the Padre.
"So! so! Don Arturo--it is idle gossip!" said Father Felipe,
impatiently,--"a brown Indian girl with a cheek as tawny as the summer
fields."
Arthur made a grimace that might have been either of assent or
deprecation.
"Well, I suppose this means that I am to look over the papers with you
alone. _Bueno!_ Have them out, and let us get over this business as soon
as possible."
"_Poco tiempo_," said Father Felipe, with a smile. Then more gravely,
"But what is this? You do not seem to have that interest in your
profession that one might expect of the rising young advocate--the
junior partner of the great firm you represent. Your heart is not in
your work--eh?"
Arthur laughed.
"Why not? It is as good as any."
"But to right the oppressed? To do justice to the unjustly accused, eh?
To redress wrongs--ah, my son! _that_ is noble. That, Don Arturo--it is
_that_ has made you and your colleagues dear to me--dear to those who
have been the helpless victims of your courts--your _corregidores_."
"Yes, yes," interrupted Arthur, hastily, shedding the Father's praise
with an habitual deft ease that was not so much the result of modesty as
a certain conscious pride that resented any imperfect tribute. "Yes, I
suppose it pays as well, if not better, in the long run. 'Honesty is the
best policy,' as our earliest philosophers say."
"Pardon?" queried the Padre.
Arthur, intensely amused, made a purposely severe and literal
translation of Franklin's famous apothegm, and then watched Father
Felipe raise his eyes and hands to the ceiling in pious protest and mute
consternation.
"And these are your American ethics?" he said at last.
"They are, and in conjunction with manifest destiny, and the star of
Empire, they have brought us here, and--have given me the honour of your
acquaintance," said Arthur in English.
Father Felipe looked at his friend in hopeless bewilderment. Arthur
instantly became respectful and Spanish. To change the subject and
relieve the old man's evident embarrassment, he at once plunged into a
humorous description of his adventure of the morning. The diversion was
only partially successful. Father Felipe became at once interested, but
did not laugh. When the young man had concluded he approached him, and
laying his soft hand on Arthur's curls, turned his face upward toward
him with a parental gesture that was at once habitual and professional,
and said--
"Look at me here. I am an old man, Don Arturo. Pardon me if I think I
have some advice to give you that may be worthy your hearing. Listen,
then! You are one of those men capable of peculiarly affecting and being
affected by women. So! Pardon," he continued, gently, as a slight flush
rose into Arthur's cheek, despite the smile that came as quickly to his
face. "Is it not so? Be not ashamed, Don Arturo! It is not here," he
added, with a poetical gesture toward the wall of the refectory, where
hung the painted effigy of the blessed St Anthony; "it is not here that
I would undervalue or speak lightly of their influence. The widow is
rich, eh?--handsome, eh? impulsive? You have no heart in the profession
you have chosen. What then? You have some in the instincts--what shall I
say--the accomplishments and graces you have not considered worthy of a
practical end! You are a natural lover. Pardon! You have the four
S's--'_Sáno_, _solo_, _solicito_, _y secreto_.' Good! Take an old man's
advice, and make good use of them. Turn your weaknesses--eh? perhaps it
_is_ too strong a word!--the frivolities and vanities of your youth into
a power for your old age! Eh?"
Arthur smiled a superior smile. He was thinking of the horror with which
the old man had received the axiom he had recently quoted. He threw
himself back in his chair in an attitude of burlesque sentiment, and
said, with simulated heroics--
"But what, O my Father! what if a devoted, exhausting passion for
somebody else already filled my heart? You would not advise me to be
false to that? Perish the thought!"
Father Felipe did not smile. A peculiar expression passed over his
broad, brown, smoothly shaven face, and the habitual look of childlike
simplicity and deferential courtesy faded from it. He turned his small
black eyes on Arthur, and said--
"Do you think you are capable of such a passion, my son? Have you had an
attachment that was superior to novelty or self-interest?"
Arthur rose a little stiffly.
"As we are talking of one of my clients and one of your parishioners,
are we not getting a little too serious, Father? At all events, save me
from assuming a bashful attitude towards the lady with whom I am to have
a business interview to-morrow. And now about the papers, Father,"
continued Arthur, recovering his former ease. "I suppose the invisible
fair one has supplied you with all the necessary documents and the
fullest material for a brief. Go on. I am all attention."
"You are wrong again, son," said Father Felipe. "It is a matter in which
she has shown even more than her usual disinclination to talk. I believe
but for my interference, she would have even refused to press the claim.
As it is, I imagine she wishes to make some compromise with the
thief--pardon me!--the what do you say? eh? the pre-emptor! But I have
nothing to do with it. All the papers, all the facts are in the
possession of your friend, Mrs. Sepulvida. You are to see her. Believe
me, my friend, if you have been disappointed in not finding your Indian
client, you will have a charming substitute--and one of your own race
and colour--in the Donna Maria. Forget, if you can, what I have
said--but you will not. Ah, Don Arturo! I know you better than yourself!
Come. Let us walk in the garden. You have not seen the vines. I have a
new variety of grape since you were here before."
"I find nothing better than the old Mission grape, Father," said Arthur,
as they passed down the branching avenue of olives.
"Ah! Yet the aborigines knew it not and only valued it when found wild
for the colouring matter contained in its skin. From this, with some
mordant that still remains a secret with them, they made a dye to stain
their bodies and heighten their copper hue. You are not listening, Don
Arturo, yet it should interest you, for it is the colour of your
mysterious client, the Donna Dolores."
Thus chatting, and pointing out the various objects that might interest
Arthur, from the overflowing boughs of a venerable fig tree to the crack
made in the adobe wall of the church by the last earthquake, Father
Felipe, with characteristic courteous formality, led his young friend
through the ancient garden of the Mission. By degrees, the former ease
and mutual confidence of the two friends returned, and by the time that
Father Felipe excused himself for a few moments to attend to certain
domestic arrangements on behalf of his new guest perfect sympathy had
been restored.
Left to himself, Arthur strolled back until opposite the open chancel
door of the church. Here he paused, and, in obedience to a sudden
impulse, entered. The old church was unchanged--like all things in San
Antonio--since the last hundred years; perhaps there was little about it
that Arthur had not seen at the other Missions. There were the old
rafters painted in barbaric splendour of red and brown stripes; there
were the hideous, waxen, glass-eyed saints, leaning forward helplessly
and rigidly from their niches; there was the Virgin Mary in a white
dress and satin slippers, carrying the infant Saviour in the opulence of
lace long-clothes; there was the Magdalen in the fashionable costume of
a Spanish lady of the last century. There was the usual quantity of bad
pictures; the portrait, full length, of the patron saint himself, so
hideously and gratuitously old and ugly that his temptation by any
self-respecting woman appeared more miraculous than his resistance; the
usual martyrdoms in terrible realism; the usual "Last Judgments" in
frightful accuracy of detail.
But there was one picture under the nave which attracted Arthur's
listless eyes. It was a fanciful representation of Junipero Serra
preaching to the heathen. I am afraid that it was not the figure of that
most admirable and heroic missionary which drew Arthur's gaze; I am
quite certain that it was not the moral sentiment of the subject, but
rather the slim, graceful, girlish, half-nude figure of one of the
Indian converts who knelt at Father Junipero Serra's feet, in childlike
but touching awe and contrition. There was such a depth of penitential
supplication in the young girl's eyes--a penitence so pathetically
inconsistent with the absolute virgin innocence and helplessness of the
exquisite little figure, that Arthur felt his heart beat quickly as he
gazed. He turned quickly to the other picture--look where he would, the
eyes of the little acolyte seemed to follow and subdue him.
I think I have already intimated that his was not a reverential nature.
With a quick imagination and great poetic sensibility nevertheless, the
evident intent of the picture, or even the sentiment of the place, did
not touch his heart or brain. But he still half-unconsciously dropped
into a seat, and, leaning both arms over the screen before him, bowed
his head against the oaken panel. A soft hand laid upon his shoulder
suddenly aroused him.
He looked up sharply and met the eyes of the Padre looking down on him
with a tenderness that both touched and exasperated him.
"Pardon!" said Padre Felipe, gently. "I have broken in upon your
thoughts, child!"
A little more brusquely than was his habit with the Padre, Arthur
explained that he had been studying up a difficult case.
"So!" said the Padre, softly, in response. "With tears in your eyes, Don
Arturo? Not so!" he added to himself, as he drew the young man's arm in
his own and the two passed slowly out once more into the sunlight.
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE DONNA MARIA MAKES AN IMPRESSION.
The Rancho of the Blessed Fisherman looked seaward as became its title.
If the founder of the rancho had shown a religious taste in the
selection of the site of the dwelling, his charming widow had certainly
shown equal practical taste, and indeed a profitable availing of some
advantages that the founder did not contemplate, in the adornment of the
house. The low-walled square adobe dwelling had been relieved of much of
its hard practical outline by several feminine additions and
suggestions. The tiled roof had been carried over a very broad
verandah, supported by vine-clad columns, and the lounging corridor had
been, in defiance of all Spanish custom, transferred from the inside of
the house to the outside. The interior courtyard no longer existed. The
sombreness of the heavy Mexican architecture was relieved by bright
French chintzes, delicate lace curtains, and fresh-coloured hangings.
The broad verandah was filled with the latest novelties of Chinese
bamboo chairs and settees, and a striped Venetian awning shaded the
glare of the seaward front. Nevertheless, Donna Maria, out of respect to
the local opinion, which regarded these changes as ominous of, if not a
symbolical putting off the weeds of widowhood, still clung to a few of
the local traditions. It is true that a piano occupied one side of her
drawing-room, but a harp stood in the corner. If a freshly-cut novel lay
open on the piano, a breviary was conspicuous on the marble
centre-table. If, on the mantel, an elaborate French clock with bronze
shepherdesses trifled with Time, on the wall above it an iron crucifix
spoke of Eternity.
Mrs. Sepulvida was at home that morning expecting a guest. She was lying
in a Manilla hammock, swung between two posts of the verandah, with her
face partially hidden by the netting, and the toe of a little shoe just
peeping beyond. Not that Donna Maria expected to receive her guest thus;
on the contrary, she had given orders to her servants that the moment a
stranger _caballero_ appeared on the road she was to be apprised of the
fact. For I grieve to say that, far from taking Arthur's advice, the
details of the adventure at the Point of Pines had been imparted by her
own lips to most of her female friends, and even to the domestics of her
household. In the earlier stages of a woman's interest in a man she is
apt to be exceedingly communicative; it is only when she becomes fully
aware of the gravity of the stake involved that she begins to hedge
before the public. The morning after her adventure Donna Maria was
innocently full of its hero and unreservedly voluble.
I have forgotten whether I have described her. Certainly I could not
have a better opportunity than the present. In the hammock she looked a
little smaller, as women are apt to when their length is rigidly
defined. She had the average quantity of brown hair, a little badly
treated by her habit of wearing it flat over her temples--a tradition of
her boarding-school days, fifteen years ago. She had soft brown eyes,
with a slight redness of the eyelid not inconsistent nor entirely
unbecoming to widowhood; a small mouth depressed at the corners with a
charming, childlike discontent; white regular teeth, and the eloquence
of a complexion that followed unvaryingly the spirits of her physical
condition. She appeared to be about thirty, and had that unmistakable
"married" look which even the most amiable and considerate of us, my
dear sir, are apt to impress upon the one woman whom we choose to elect
to years of exclusive intimacy and attention. The late Don José
Sepulvida's private mark--as well defined as the brand upon his
cattle--was a certain rigid line, like a grave accent, from the angle of
this little woman's nostril to the corners of her mouth, and possibly to
an increased peevishness of depression at those corners. It bore witness
to the fondness of the deceased for bear-baiting and bull-fighting, and
a possible weakness for a certain Señora X. of San Francisco, whose
reputation was none of the best, and was not increased by her distance
from San Antonio and the surveillance of Donna Maria.
When an hour later "Pepe" appeared to his mistress, bearing a salver
with Arthur Poinsett's business card and a formal request for an
interview, I am afraid Donna Maria was a little disappointed. If he had
suddenly scaled the verandah, evaded her servants, and appeared before
her in an impulsive, forgivable way, it would have seemed consistent
with his character as a hero, and perhaps more in keeping with the
general tenor of her reveries when the servitor entered. Howbeit, after
heaving an impatient little sigh, and bidding "Pepe" show the gentleman
into the drawing-room, she slipped quietly down from the hammock in a
deft womanish way, and whisked herself into her dressing-room.
"He couldn't have been more formal if Don José had been alive," she said
to herself as she walked to her glass and dressing-table.
Arthur Poinsett entered the vacant drawing-room not in the best of his
many humours. He had read in the eyes of the lounging _vaqueros_, in the
covert glances of the women servants, that the story of his adventure
was known to the household. Habitually petted and spoiled as he had been
by the women of his acquaintance, he was half inclined to attribute this
reference and assignment of his client's business to the hands of Mrs.
Sepulvida, as the result of a plan of Father Felipe's, or absolute
collusion between the parties. A little sore yet, and irritated by his
recollection of the Padre's counsel, and more impatient of the
imputation of a weakness than anything else, Arthur had resolved to
limit the interview to the practical business on hand, and in so doing
had, for a moment, I fear, forgotten his native courtesy. It did not
tend to lessen his irritation and self-consciousness when Mrs. Sepulvida
entered the room without the slightest evidence of her recent
disappointment visible in her perfectly easy, frank self-possession, and
after a conventional, half Spanish solicitousness regarding his health
since their last interview, without any further allusions to their
adventure, begged him to be seated. She herself took an easy chair on
the opposite of the table, and assumed at once an air of respectful but
somewhat indifferent attention.
"I believe," said Arthur, plunging at once into his subject to get rid
of his embarrassment and the slight instinct of antagonism he was
beginning to feel toward the woman before him, "I believe--that is, I am
told--that besides your own business, you are intrusted with some
documents and facts regarding a claim of the Donna Dolores Salvatierra.
Which shall we have first? I am entirely at your service for the next
two hours, but we shall proceed faster and with less confusion by taking
up one thing at a time."
"Then let us begin with Donna Dolores, by all means," said Donna Maria;
"my own affairs can wait. Indeed," she added, languidly, "I daresay one
of your clerks could attend to it as well as yourself. If your time is
valuable--as indeed it must be--I can put the papers in his hands and
make him listen to all my foolish, irrelevant talk. He can sift it for
you, Don Arturo. I really am a child about business, really."
Arthur smiled, and made a slight gesture of deprecation. In spite of his
previous resolution, Donna Maria's tone of slight pique pleased him. Yet
he gravely opened his note-book, and took up his pencil without a word.
Donna Maria observed the movements, and said more seriously--
"Ah yes! how foolish! Here I am talking about my own affairs, when I
should be speaking of Donna Dolores! Well, to begin. Let me first
explain why she has put this matter in my hands. My husband and her
father were friends, and had many business interests in common. As you
have doubtless heard, she has always been very quiet, very reserved,
very religious--almost a nun. I daresay she was driven into this
isolation by reason of the delicacy of her position here, for you
know--do you not?--that her mother was an Indian. It is only a few years
ago that the old Governor, becoming a widower and childless, bethought
himself of this Indian child, Dolores. He found the mother dead, and
the girl living somewhere at a distant Mission as an acolyte. He brought
her to San Antonio, had her christened, and made legally his daughter
and heiress. She was a mere slip of a thing, about fourteen or fifteen.
She might have had a pretty complexion, for some of these half-breeds
are nearly white, but she had been stained when an infant with some
barbarous and indelible dye, after the savage custom of her race. She is
now a light copper colour, not unlike those bronze shepherdesses on
yonder clock. In spite of all this I call her pretty. Perhaps it is
because I love her and am prejudiced. But you gentlemen are so critical
about complexion and colour--no wonder that the poor child refuses to
see anybody, and never goes into society at all. It is a shame!
But--pardon, Mr. Poinsett, here am I gossiping about your client's
looks, when I should be stating her grievances."
"No, no!" said Arthur, hastily, "go on--in your own way."
Mrs Sepulvida lifted her forefinger archly.
"Ah! is it so, Don Arturo? I thought so! Well, it is a great shame that
she is not here for you to judge for yourself."
Angry with himself for his embarrassment, and for the rising colour on
his cheek, Arthur would have explained himself, but the lady, with
feminine tact, did not permit him.
"To proceed: Partly because I did not participate in the prejudices with
which the old families here regarded her race and colour, partly,
perhaps, because we were both strangers here, we became friends. At
first she resisted all my advances--indeed, I think she was more shy of
me than the others, but I triumphed in time, and we became good friends.
Friends, you understand, Mr. Poinsett, not _confidants_. You men, I
know, deem this impossible, but Donna Dolores is a singular girl, and I
have never, except upon the most general topics, won her from her
habitual reserve. And I possess perhaps her only friendship."
"Except Father Felipe, her confessor?"
Mrs. Sepulvida shrugged her shoulders, and then borrowed the habitual
sceptical formula of San Antonio.
"_Quien sabe?_ But I am rambling again. Now for the case."
She rose, and taking from the drawer of the secretary an envelope, drew
out some papers it contained, and referred to them as she went on.
"It appears that a grant of Micheltorena to Salvatierra was discovered
recently at Monterey, a grant of which there was no record among
Salvatierra's papers. The explanation given is that it was placed some
five years ago in trust with a Don Pedro Ruiz, of San Francisco as
security for a lease now expired. The grant is apparently regular,
properly witnessed, and attested. Don Pedro has written that some of the
witnesses are still alive, and remember it."
"Then why not make the proper application for a patent?"
"True, but if that were all, Don Arturo would not have been summoned
from San Francisco for consultation. There is something else. Don Pedro
writes that another grant for the same land has been discovered recorded
to another party."
"That is, I am sorry to say, not a singular experience in our
profession," said Arthur, with a smile. "But Salvatierra's known
reputation and probity would probably be sufficient to outweigh equal
documentary evidence on the other side. It's unfortunate he's dead, and
the grant was discovered after his death."
"But the holder of the other grant is dead too!" said the widow.
"That makes it about equal again. But who is he?"
Mrs. Sepulvida referred to her papers, and then said--
"Dr. Devarges."
"Who?"
"Devarges," said Mrs. Sepulvida, referring to her notes. "A singular
name--a foreigner, I suppose. No, really Mr. Poinsett, you shall not
look at the paper until I have copied it--it's written horribly--you
can't understand it! I'm really ashamed of my writing, but I was in such
a hurry, expecting you every moment! Why, la! Mr. Poinsett, how cold
your hands are!"
Arthur Poinsett had risen hurriedly, and reached out almost brusquely
for the paper that she held. But the widow had coquettishly resisted him
with a mischievous show of force, and had caught and--dropped his hand!
"And you are pale, too. Dear me! I'm afraid you took cold that morning,"
said Mrs. Sepulvida. "I should never forgive myself if you did. I should
cry my eyes out!" and Donna Maria cast a dangerous look from under her
slightly swollen lids that looked as if they might threaten a deluge.
"Nothing, nothing, I have ridden far this morning, and rose early," said
Arthur, chafing his hands with a slightly embarrassed smile. "But I
interrupted you. Pray go on. Has Dr. Devarges any heirs to contest the
grant?"
But the widow did not seem inclined to go on. She was positive that
Arthur wanted some wine. Would he not let her order some slight repast
before they proceeded further in this horrid business? She was tired.
She was quite sure that Arthur must be so too.
"It is my business," said Arthur, a little stiffly, but, recovering
himself again in a sudden and new alarm of the widow, he smiled and
suggested the sooner the business was over, the sooner he would be able
to partake of her hospitality.
The widow beamed prospectively.
"There are no heirs that we can find. But there is a--what do you call
it?--a something or other--in possession!"
"A squatter?" said Poinsett, shortly.
"Yes," continued the widow, with a light laugh; "a 'squatter,' by the
name of--of--my writing is so horrid--let me see, oh, yes! 'Gabriel
Conroy.'"
Arthur made an involuntary gesture toward the paper with his hand, but
the widow mischievously skipped toward the window, and, luckily for the
spectacle of his bloodless face, held the paper before her dimpled face
and laughing eyes, as she did so.
"Gabriel Conroy," repeated Mrs. Sepulvida, "and--and--and--his"----
"His sister?" said Arthur, with an effort.
"No, sir!" responded Mrs. Sepulvida, with a slight pout, "his _wife_!
Sister indeed! As if we married women are always to be ignored by you
legal gentlemen!"
Arthur remained silent, with his face turned toward the sea. When he did
speak his voice was quite natural.
"Might I change my mind regarding your offer of a moment ago, and take a
glass of wine and a biscuit now?"
Mrs. Sepulvida ran to the door.
"Let me look over your notes while you are gone," said Arthur.
"You won't laugh at my writing?"
"No!"
Donna Maria tossed him the envelope gaily and flew out of the room.
Arthur hurried to the window with the coveted memoranda. There were the
names she had given him--but nothing more! At least this was some slight
relief.
The suddenness of the shock, rather than any moral sentiment or fear,
had upset him. Like most imaginative men, he was a trifle superstitious,
and with the first mention of Devarges's name came a swift recollection
of Padre Felipe's analysis of his own character, his sad, ominous
reverie in the chapel, the trifling circumstance that brought him
instead of his partner to San Antonio, and the remoter chance that had
discovered the forgotten grant and selected him to prosecute its
recovery. This conviction entertained and forgotten, all the resources
of his combative nature returned. Of course he could not prosecute this
claim; of course he ought to prevent others from doing it. There was
every probability that the grant of Devarges was a true one--and Gabriel
was in possession! Had he really become Devarges's heir, and if so, why
had he not claimed the grant boldly? And where was Grace?
In this last question there was a slight tinge of sentimental
recollection, but no remorse or shame. That he might in some way be of
service to her, he fervently hoped. That, time having blotted out the
romantic quality of their early acquaintance, there would really be
something fine and loyal in so doing, he did not for a moment doubt. He
would suggest a compromise to his fair client, himself seek out and
confer with Grace and Gabriel, and all should be made right. His
nervousness and his agitation was, he was satisfied, only the result of
a conscientiousness and a delicately honourable nature, perhaps too fine
and spiritual for the exigencies of his profession. Of one thing he was
convinced: he really ought to carefully consider Father Felipe's advice;
he ought to put himself beyond the reach of these romantic relapses.
In this self-sustained, self-satisfied mood, Mrs. Sepulvida found him on
her return. Since she had been gone, he said, he had been able to see
his way quite clearly into this case, and he had no doubt his
perspicacity was greatly aided by the admirable manner in which she had
indicated the various points on the paper she had given him. He was now
ready to take up her own matters, only he begged as clear and concise a
brief as she had already made for her friend. He was so cheerful and
gallant that by the time luncheon was announced the widow found him
quite charming, and was inclined to forgive him for the disappointment
of the morning. And when, after luncheon, he challenged her to a sharp
canter with him along the beach, by way, as he said, of keeping her
memory from taking cold, and to satisfy herself that the Point of Pines
could be doubled without going out to sea, I fear that, without a
prudent consideration of the gossips of San Antonio before her eyes, she
assented. There could be no harm in riding with her late husband's legal
adviser, who had called, as everybody knew, on business, and whose time
was so precious that he must return even before the business was
concluded. And then "Pepe" could follow them, to return with her!
It did not, of course, occur to either Arthur or Donna Maria that they
might outrun "Pepe," who was fat and indisposed to violent exertion; nor
that they should find other things to talk about than the details of
business; nor that the afternoon should be so marvellously beautiful as
to cause them to frequently stop and admire the stretch of glittering
sea beyond; nor that the roar of the waves was so deafening as to oblige
them to keep so near each other for the purposes of conversation that
the widow's soft breath was continually upon Arthur's cheek; nor that
Donna Maria's saddle girth should become so loose that she was forced to
dismount while Arthur tightened it, and that he should be obliged to
lift her in his arms to restore her to her seat again. But finally, when
the Point of Pines was safely rounded, and Arthur was delivering a few
parting words of legal counsel, holding one of her hands in his, while
with the other he was untwisting a long tress of her blown down hair,
that, after buffeting his cheek into colour, had suddenly twined itself
around his neck, an old-fashioned family carriage, drawn by four black
mules with silver harness, passed them suddenly on the road.
Donna Maria drew her head and her hand away with a quick blush and
laugh, and then gaily kissed her finger-tips to the retreating carriage.
Arthur laughed also--but a little foolishly--and looked as if expecting
some explanation.
"You should have your wits about you, sir. Did you know who that was?"
Arthur sincerely confessed ignorance. He had not noticed the carriage
until it had passed.
"Think what you have lost! That was your fair young client."
"I did not even see her," laughed Arthur.
"But she saw you! She never took her eyes off you. Adios!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE LADY OF GRIEF.
"You will not go to-day," said Father Felipe to Arthur, as he entered
the Mission refectory early the next morning to breakfast.
"I shall be on the road in an hour, Father," replied Arthur, gaily.
"But not toward San Francisco," said the Padre. "Listen! Your wish of
yesterday has been attained. You are to have your desired interview with
the fair invisible. Do you comprehend? Donna Dolores has sent for you."
Arthur looked up in surprise. Perhaps his face did not express as much
pleasure as Father Felipe expected, who lifted his eyes to the ceiling,
took a philosophical pinch of snuff, and muttered--
"_Ah, lo que es el mudo!_--Now that he has his wish--it is nothing,
Mother of God!"
"This is _your_ kindness, Father."
"God forbid!" returned Padre Felipe, hastily. "Believe me, my son, I
know nothing. When the Donna left here before the _Angelus_ yesterday,
she said nothing of this. Perhaps it is the office of your friend, Mrs.
Sepulvida."
"Hardly, I think," said Arthur; "she was so well prepared with all the
facts as to render an interview with Donna Dolores unnecessary. _Bueno_,
be it so! I will go."
Nevertheless, he was ill at ease. He ate little, he was silent. All the
fears he had argued away with such self-satisfied logic the day before,
returned to him again with greater anxiety. Could there have been any
further facts regarding this inopportune grant that Mrs. Sepulvida had
not disclosed? Was there any particular reason why this strange recluse,
who had hitherto avoided his necessary professional presence, should now
desire a personal interview which was not apparently necessary? Could it
be possible that communication had already been established with Gabriel
or Grace, and that the history of their previous life had become known
to his client? Had his connexion with it been in any way revealed to the
Donna Dolores?
If he had been able to contemplate this last possibility with calmness
and courage yesterday when Mrs. Sepulvida first repeated the name of
Gabriel Conroy, was he capable of equal resignation now? Had anything
occurred since then?--had any new resolution entered his head to which
such a revelation would be fatal? Nonsense! And yet he could not help
commenting, with more or less vague uneasiness of mind, on his chance
meeting of Donna Dolores at the Point of Pines yesterday and the
summons of this morning. Would not his foolish attitude with Donna
Maria, aided, perhaps, by some indiscreet expression from the
well-meaning but senile Padre Felipe, be sufficient to exasperate his
fair client had she been cognizant of his first relations with Grace? It
is not mean natures alone that are the most suspicious. A quick,
generous imagination, feverishly excited, will project theories of
character and intention far more ridiculous and uncomplimentary to
humanity than the lowest surmises of ignorance and imbecility. Arthur
was feverish and edited; with all the instincts of a contradictory
nature, his easy sentimentalism dreaded, while his combative principles
longed for, this interview. Within an hour of the time appointed by
Donna Dolores, he had thrown himself on his horse, and was galloping
furiously toward the "Rancho of the Holy Trinity."
It was inland and three leagues away under the foot-hills. But as he
entered upon the level plain, unrelieved by any watercourse; and baked
and cracked by the fierce sun into narrow gaping chasms and yawning
fissures, he unconsciously began to slacken pace. Nothing could be more
dreary, passionless, and resigned than the vast, sunlit, yet joyless
waste. It seemed as if it might be some illimitable, desolate sea,
beaten flat by the north-westerly gales that spent their impotent fury
on its unopposing levels. As far as the eye could reach, its dead
monotony was unbroken; even the black cattle that in the clear distance
seemed to crawl over its surface, did not animate it; rather by contrast
brought into relief its fixed rigidity of outline. Neither wind, sky,
nor sun wrought any change over its blank, expressionless face. It was
the symbol of Patience--a hopeless, weary, helpless patience--but a
patience that was Eternal.
He had ridden for nearly an hour, when suddenly there seemed to spring
up from the earth, a mile away, a dark line of wall, terminating in an
irregular, broken outline against the sky. His first impression was that
it was the _valda_ or a break of the stiff skirt of the mountain as it
struck the level plain. But he presently saw the dull red of tiled roofs
over the dark adobe wall, and as he dashed down into the dry bed of a
vanished stream and up again on the opposite bank, he passed the low
walls of a _corral_, until then unnoticed, and a few crows, in a rusty,
half-Spanish, half-clerical suit, uttered a croaking welcome to the
Rancho of the Holy Trinity, as they rose from the ground before him. It
was the first sound that for an hour had interrupted the monotonous
jingle of his spurs or the hollow beat of his horse's hoofs. And then,
after the fashion of the country, he rose slightly in his stirrups,
dashed his spurs into the sides of his mustang, swung the long,
horsehair, braided thong of his bridle-rein, and charged at headlong
speed upon the dozen lounging, apparently listless _vaqueros_, who, for
the past hour, had nevertheless been watching and waiting for him at the
courtyard gate. As he rode toward them, they separated, drew up each
side of the gate, doffed their glazed, stiff-brimmed, black _sombreros_,
wheeled, put spurs to their horses, and in another instant were
scattered to the four winds. When Arthur leaped to the brick pavement of
the courtyard, there was not one in sight.
An Indian servant noiselessly led away his horse. Another _peon_ as
mutely led the way along a corridor over whose low railings _serapes_
and saddle blankets were hung in a barbaric confusion of colouring, and
entered a bare-walled ante-room, where another Indian--old, grey-headed,
with a face like a wrinkled tobacco leaf--was seated on a low wooden
settle in an attitude of patient expectancy. To Arthur's active fancy he
seemed to have been sitting there since the establishment of the
Mission, and to have grown grey in waiting for him. As Arthur entered he
rose, and with a few grave Spanish courtesies, ushered him into a
larger and more elaborately furnished apartment, and again retired with
a bow. Familiar as Arthur was with these various formalities, at present
they seemed to have an undue significance, and he turned somewhat
impatiently as a door opened at the other end of the apartment. At the
same moment a subtle strange perfume--not unlike some barbaric spice or
odorous Indian herb--stole through the door, and an old woman,
brown-faced, murky-eyed, and decrepit, entered with a respectful
curtsey.
"It is Don Arturo Poinsett?" Arthur bowed.
"The Donna Dolores has a little indisposition, and claims your
indulgence if she receives you in her own room."
Arthur bowed assent.
"_Bueno!_ This way."
She pointed to the open door. Arthur entered by a narrow passage cut
through the thickness of the adobe wall into another room beyond, and
paused on the threshold.
Even the gradual change from the glaring sunshine of the courtyard to
the heavy shadows of the two rooms he had passed through was not
sufficient to accustom his eyes to the twilight of the apartment he now
entered. For several seconds he could not distinguish anything but a few
dimly outlined objects. By degrees he saw that there were a bed, a
_prie-dieu_, and a sofa against the opposite wall. The scant light of
two windows--mere longitudinal slits in the deep walls--at first
permitted him only this. Later he saw that the sofa was occupied by a
half-reclining figure, whose face was partly hidden by a fan, and the
white folds of whose skirt fell in graceful curves to the floor.
"You speak Spanish, Don Arturo?" said an exquisitely modulated voice
from behind the fan, in perfect Castilian.
Arthur turned quickly toward the voice with an indescribable thrill of
pleasure in his nerves.
"A little."
He was usually rather proud of his Spanish, but for once the
conventional polite disclaimer was quite sincere.
"Be seated, Don Arturo."
He advanced to a chair indicated by the old woman within a few feet of
the sofa and sat down. At the same instant the reclining figure, by a
quick, dexterous movement, folded the large black fan that had partly
hidden her features, and turned her face toward him.
Arthur's heart leaped with a sudden throb, and then, as it seemed to
him, for a few seconds stopped beating. The eyes that met his were
large, lustrous, and singularly beautiful; the features were small,
European, and perfectly modelled; the outline of the small face was a
perfect oval, but the complexion was of burnished copper! Yet even the
next moment he found himself halting among a dozen comparisons--a golden
sherry, a faintly dyed meerschaum, an autumn leaf, the inner bark of the
_madroño_. Of only one thing was he certain--she was the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen!
It is possible that the Donna read this in his eyes, for she opened her
fan again quietly, and raised it slowly before her face. Arthur's eager
glance swept down the long curves of her graceful figure to the little
foot in the white satin slipper below. Yet her quaint dress, except for
its colour, might have been taken for a religious habit, and had a hood
or cape descending over her shoulders not unlike a nun's.
"You have surprise, Don Arturo," she said, after a pause, "that I have
sent for you, after having before consulted you by proxy. Good! But I
have changed my mind since then! I have concluded to take no steps for
the present toward perfecting the grant."
In an instant Arthur was himself again--and completely on his guard.
The Donna's few words had recalled the past that he had been rapidly
forgetting; even the perfectly delicious cadence of the tones in which
it was uttered had now no power to fascinate him or lull his nervous
anxiety. He felt a presentiment that the worst was coming. He turned
toward her, outwardly calm, but alert, eager, and watchful.
"Have you any newly discovered evidence that makes the issue doubtful?"
he asked.
"No," said Donna Dolores.
"Is there anything?--any fact that Mrs. Sepulvida has forgotten?"
continued Arthur. "Here are, I believe, the points she gave me," he
added, and, with the habit of a well-trained intelligence, he put before
Donna Dolores, in a few well-chosen words, the substance of Mrs.
Sepulvida's story. Nor did his manner in the least betray a fact of
which he was perpetually cognisant--namely, that his fair client,
between the sticks of her fan, was studying his face with more than
feminine curiosity. When he paused she said--
"_Bueno!_ That is what I told her."
"Is there anything more?"--"Perhaps!"
Arthur folded his arms and looked attentive. Donna Dolores began to go
over the sticks of her fan one by one, as if it were a rosary.
"I have become acquainted with some facts in this case which may not
interest you as a lawyer, Don Arturo, but which affect me as a woman.
When I have told you them, you will tell me--who knows?--that they do
not alter the legal aspect of my--my father's claim. You will perhaps
laugh at me for my resolution. But I have given you so much trouble,
that it is only fair you should know it is not merely caprice that
governs me--that you should know why your visit here is a barren one;
why you--the great advocate--have been obliged to waste your valuable
time with my poor friend, Donna Maria, for nothing."
Arthur was too much pre-occupied to notice the peculiarly feminine
significance with which the Donna dwelt upon this latter sentence--a
fact that would not otherwise have escaped his keen observation. He
slightly stroked his brown moustache, and looked out of the window with
masculine patience.
"It is not caprice, Don Arturo. But I am a woman and on orphan! You know
my history! The only friend I had has left me here alone the custodian
of these vast estates. Listen to me, Don Arturo, and you will
understand, or at least forgive, my foolish interest in the people who
contest this claim. For what has happened to them, to _her_, might have
happened to me, but for the blessed Virgin's mediation."
"To _her_--who is _she_?" asked Arthur, quietly.
"Pardon! I had forgotten you do not know. Listen. You have heard that
this grant is occupied by a man and his wife--a certain Gabriel Conroy.
Good! You have heard that they have made no claim to a legal title to
the land, except through pre-emption. Good. That is not true, Don
Arturo!"
Arthur turned to her in undisguised surprise.
"This is new matter; this _is_ a legal point of some importance."
"Who knows?" said Donna Dolores, indifferently. "It is not in regard of
that that I speak. The claim is this. The Dr. Devarges, who also
possesses a grant for the same land, made a gift of it to the sister of
this Gabriel. Do you comprehend?" She paused, and fixed her eyes on
Arthur.
"Perfectly," said Arthur, with his gaze still fixed on the window; "it
accounts for the presence of this Gabriel on the land. But is she
living? Or, if not, is he her legally constituted heir? That is the
question, and--pardon me if I suggest again--a purely legal and not a
sentimental question. Was this woman who has disappeared--this
sister--this sole and only legatee--a married woman--had she a child?
Because that is the heir."
The silence that followed this question was so protracted that Arthur
turned towards Donna Dolores. She had apparently made some sign to her
aged waiting-woman, who was bending over her, between Arthur and the
sofa. In a moment, however, the venerable handmaid withdrew, leaving
them alone.
"You are right, Don Arturo," continued Donna Dolores, behind her fan.
"You see that, after all, your advice is necessary, and what I began as
an explanation of my folly may be of business importance; who knows? It
is good of you to recall me to that. We women are foolish. You are
sagacious and prudent. It was well that I saw you!"
Arthur nodded assent, and resumed his professional attitude of patient
toleration--that attitude which the world over has been at once the
exasperation and awful admiration of the largely injured client.
"And the sister, the real heiress, is gone--disappeared! No one knows
where! All trace of her is lost. But now comes to the surface an
impostor! a woman who assumes the character and name of Grace Conroy,
the sister!"
"One moment," said Arthur, quietly, "how do you know that it is an
impostor?"
"How--do--I--know--it?"
"Yes, what are the proofs?"
"I am told so!"
"Oh!" said Arthur, relapsing into his professional attitude again.
"Proofs," repeated Donna Dolores, hurriedly. "Is it not enough that she
has married this Gabriel, her brother?"
"That is certainly strong moral proof--and perhaps legal corroborative
evidence," said Arthur, coolly; "but it will not legally estop her
proving that she is his sister--if she can do so. But I ask your
pardon--go on!"
"That is all," said Donna Dolores, sitting up, with a slight gesture of
impatience.
"Very well. Then, as I understand, the case is simply this: You hold a
grant to a piece of laud, actually possessed by a squatter, who claims
it through his wife or sister--legally it doesn't matter which--by
virtue of a bequest made by one Dr. Devarges, who also held a grant to
the same property?"
"Yes," said Donna Dolores, hesitatingly.
"Well, the matter lies between you and Dr. Devarges only. It is simply a
question of the validity of the original grants. All that you have told
me does not alter that radical fact. Stay! One moment! May I ask how you
have acquired these later details?"
"By letter."
"From whom?"
"There was no signature. The writer offered to prove all he said. It was
anonymous."
Arthur rose with a superior smile.
"May I ask you further, without impertinence, if it is upon this
evidence that you propose to abandon your claim to a valuable property?"
"I have told you before that it is not a legal question, Don Arturo,"
said Donna Dolores, waving her fan a little more rapidly.
"Good! let us take it in the moral or sentimental aspect--since you have
purposed to honour me with a request for my counsel. To begin, you have
a sympathy for the orphan, who does not apparently exist."
"But her brother?"
"Has already struck hands with the impostor, and married her to secure
the claim. And this brother--what proof is there that he is not an
impostor too?"
"True," said Donna Dolores, musingly.
"He will certainly have to settle that trifling question with Dr.
Devarges's heirs, whoever they may be."
"True," said Donna Dolores.
"In short, I see no reason, even from your own view-point, why you
should not fight this claim. The orphan you sympathise with is not an
active party. You have only a brother opposed to you, who seems to have
been willing to barter away a sister's birthright. And, as I said
before, your sympathies, however kind and commendable they may be, will
be of no avail unless the courts decide against Dr. Devarges. My advice
is to fight. If the right does not always succeed, my experience is that
the Right, at least, is apt to play its best card, and put forward its
best skill. And until it does that, it might as well be the Wrong, you
know."
"You are wise, Don Arturo. But you lawyers are so often only advocates.
Pardon, I mean no wrong. But if it were Grace--the sister, you
understand--what would be your advice?"
"The same. Fight it out! If I could overthrow your grant, I should do
it. The struggle, understand me, is there, and not with this wife and
sister. But how does it come that a patent for this has not been applied
for before by Gabriel? Did your anonymous correspondent explain that
fact? It is a point in our favour."
"You forget--_our_ grant was only recently discovered."
"True! it is about equal, then, _ab initio_. And the absence of this
actual legatee is in our favour."
"Why?"
"Because there is a certain human sympathy in juries with a pretty
orphan--particularly if poor."
"How do you know she was pretty?" asked Donna Dolores, quickly.
"I presume so. It is the privilege of orphanage," he said, with a bow of
cold gallantry.
"You are wise, Don Arturo. May you live a thousand years."
This time it was impossible but Arthur should notice the irony of Donna
Dolores's manner. All his strong combative instincts rose. The
mysterious power of her beauty, which he could not help acknowledging,
her tone of superiority, whether attributable to a consciousness of this
power over him, or some knowledge of his past--all aroused his cold
pride. He remembered the reputation that Donna Dolores bore as a
religious devotee and rigid moralist. If he had been taxed with his
abandonment of Grace, with his half-formed designs upon Mrs. Sepulvida,
he would have coldly admitted them without excuse or argument. In doing
so, he would have been perfectly conscious that he should lose the
esteem of Donna Dolores, of whose value he had become, within the last
few moments, equally conscious. But it was a part of this young man's
singular nature that he would have experienced a certain
self-satisfaction in the act, that would have outweighed all other
considerations. In the ethics of his own consciousness he called this
"being true to himself." In a certain sense he was right.
He rose, and, standing respectfully before his fair client, said--
"Have you decided fully? Do I understand that I am to press this claim
with a view of ousting these parties? or will you leave them for the
present in undisturbed possession of the land?"
"But what do _you_ say?" continued Donna Dolores, with her eyes fixed
upon his face.
"I have said already," returned Arthur, with a patient smile. "Morally
and legally, my advice is to press the claim!"
Donna Dolores turned her eyes away with the slightest shade of
annoyance.
"_Bueno!_ We shall see. There is time enough. Be seated, Don Arturo.
What is this? Surely you will not refuse our hospitality to-night?"
"I fear," said Arthur, with grave politeness, "that I must return to the
Mission at once. I have already delayed my departure a day. They expect
me in San Francisco to-morrow."
"Let them wait. You shall write that important business keeps you here,
and Diego shall ride my own horse to reach the _embarcadero_ for the
steamer to-night. To-morrow he will be in San Francisco."
Before he could stay her hand she had rung a small bronze bell that
stood beside her.
"But, Donna Dolores"----Arthur began, hastily.
"I understand," interrupted Donna Dolores. "Diego," she continued
rapidly, as a servant entered the room, "saddle Jovita instantly and
make ready for a journey. Then return here. Pardon!" she turned to
Arthur. "You would say your time is valuable. A large sum depends upon
your presence! Good! Write to your partners that I will pay all--that no
one else can afford to give as large a sum for your services as myself.
Write that here you must stay."
Annoyed and insulted as Arthur felt, he could not help gazing upon her
with an admiring fascination. The imperious habit of command; an almost
despotic control of a hundred servants; a certain barbaric contempt for
the unlimited revenues at her disposal that prompted the act, became her
wonderfully. In her impatience the quick blood glanced through her
bronzed cheek, her little slipper tapped the floor imperiously, and her
eyes flashed in the darkness Suddenly she stopped, looked at Arthur,
and hesitated.
"Pardon me; I have done wrong. Forgive me, Don Arturo. I am a spoiled
woman who for five years has had her own way. I am apt to forget there
is any world beyond my little kingdom here. Go, since it must be so, go
at once."
She sank back on the sofa, half veiled her face with her fan, and
dropped the long fringes of her eyes with a deprecating and half languid
movement.
Arthur stood for a moment irresolute and hesitating, but only for a
moment.
"Let me thank you for enabling me to fulfil a duty without foregoing a
pleasure. If your messenger is trustworthy and fleet it can be done. I
will stay."
She turned towards him suddenly and smiled. A smile apparently so rare
to that proud little mouth and those dark, melancholy eyes; a smile that
disclosed the smallest and whitest of teeth in such dazzling contrast to
the shadow of her face; a smile that even after its brightness had
passed still left its memory in a dimple in either nut-brown cheek, and
a glistening moisture in the dark eyes--that Arthur felt the warm blood
rise to his face.
"There are writing materials in the other room. Diego will find you
there," said Donna Dolores, "and I will rejoin you soon. Thanks."
She held out the smallest and brownest of hands. Arthur bent over it for
a single moment, and then withdrew with a quickened pulse to the outer
room. As the door closed upon him, Donna Dolores folded her fan, threw
herself back upon the sofa, and called, in a quick whisper--
"Manuela!"
The old woman reappeared with an anxious face and ran towards the sofa.
But she was loo late; her mistress had fainted.
CHAPTER VII.
A LEAF OUT OF THE PAST.
Arthur's letter to his partners was a brief explanation of his delay,
and closed with the following sentence--
"Search the records for any deed or transfer of the grant from
Dr. Devarges."
He had scarcely concluded before Diego entered ready for the journey.
When he had gone, Arthur waited with some impatience the reappearance of
Donna Dolores. To his disappointment, however, only the solemn
major-domo strode grimly into the room like a dark-complexioned ghost,
and, as it seemed to Arthur, with a strong suggestion of the Commander
in "Don Giovanni" in his manner, silently beckoned him to follow to the
apartment set aside for his reception. In keeping with the sun-evading
instincts of Spanish Californian architecture the room was long, low,
and half lighted; the two barred windows on either side of the doorway
gave upon the corridor and courtyard below; the opposite wall held only
a small narrow, deeply-embrasured loop-hole, through which Arthur could
see the vast, glittering, sun-illumined plain beyond. The hard,
monotonous, unwinking glare without did not penetrate the monastic gloom
of this chamber; even the insane, incessant restlessness of the wind
that perpetually beset the bleak walls was unheard and unfelt in the
grave, contemplative solitude of this religious cell.
Mingled with this grateful asceticism was the quaint contrast of a
peculiar Spanish luxuriousness. In a curtained recess an immense
mahogany bedstead displayed a yellow satin coverlet profusely
embroidered with pink and purple silk flowers. The borders of the sheets
and cases of the satin pillows were deeply edged with the finest lace.
Beside the bed and before a large armchair heavy rugs of barbaric
colours covered the dark wooden floor, and in front of the deep
oven-like hearth lay an immense bear-skin. About the hearth hung an
ebony and gold crucifix, and, mingled with a few modern engravings, the
usual Catholic saints and martyrs occupied the walls. It struck Arthur's
observation oddly that the subjects of the secular engravings were snow
landscapes. The Hospice of St. Bernard in winter, a pass in the Austrian
Tyrol, the Steppes of Russia, a Norwegian plain, all to Arthur's fancy
brought the temperature, of the room down considerably. A small
water-colour of an Alpine flower touched him so closely that it might
have blossomed from his recollection.
Dinner, which was prefaced by a message from Donna Dolores excusing
herself through indisposition, was served in solemn silence. A cousin of
the late Don José Salvatierra represented the family, and pervaded the
meal with a mild flavour of stale cigaritos and dignified criticism of
remote events. Arthur, disappointed at the absence of the Donna, found
himself regarding this gentleman with some degree of asperity, and a
disposition to resent any reference to his client's business as an
unwarrantable impertinence. But when the dinner was over, and he had
smoked a cigar on the corridor without further communication with Donna
Dolores, he began to be angry with himself for accepting her invitation,
and savagely critical of the motives that impelled him to it. He was
meditating an early retreat--even a visit to Mrs. Sepulvida--when
Manuela entered.
Would Don Arturo grant the Donna his further counsel and presence?
Don Arturo was conscious that his cheek was flushing, and that his
counsel at the present moment would not have been eminently remarkable
for coolness or judiciousness, but he followed the Indian woman with a
slight inclination of the head. They entered the room where he had first
met the Donna. She might not have moved from the position she had
occupied that morning on the couch, so like was her attitude and manner.
As he approached her respectfully, he was conscious of the same
fragrance, and the same mysterious magnetism that seemed to leap from
her dark eyes, and draw his own resisting and unwilling gaze toward her.
"You will despise me, Don Arturo--you, whose country-women are so strong
and active--because I am so little and weak, and,--Mother of God!--so
lazy! But I am an invalid, and am not yet quite recovered. But then I am
accustomed to it. I have lain here for days, Don Arturo, doing nothing.
It is weary-eh? You think? This watching, this waiting!--day after
day--always the same!"
There was something so delicately plaintive and tender in the cadence of
her speech--a cadence that might, perhaps, have been attributed to the
characteristic intonation of the Castilian feminine speech, but which
Arthur could not help thinking was peculiar to herself, that at the
moment he dared not lift his eyes to her, although he was conscious she
was looking at him. But by an impulse of safety he addressed himself to
the fan.
"You have been an invalid then--Donna Dolores?"
"A sufferer, Don Arturo."
"Have you ever tried the benefit of change of scene--of habits of life?
Your ample means, your freedom from the cares of family or kinship,
offer you such opportunities," he continued, still addressing the fan.
But the fan, as if magnetised by his gaze, became coquettishly
conscious; fluttered, faltered, drooped, and then languidly folded its
wings. Arthur was left helpless.
"Perhaps," said Donna Dolores: "who knows?"
She paused for an instant, and then made a sign to Manuela. The Indian
woman rose and left the room.
"I have something to tell you, Don Arturo," she continued, "something I
should have told you this morning. It is not too late now. But it is a
secret. It is only that I have questioned my right to tell it--not that
I have doubted your honour, Don Arturo, that I withheld it then."
Arthur raised his eyes to hers. It was her turn to evade his glance.
With her long lashes drooped, she went on--
"It is five years ago, and my father--whom may the Saints assoil--was
alive. Came to us then at the Presidio of San Geronimo, a young girl--an
American, a stranger and helpless. She had escaped from a lost camp in
the snowy mountains where her family and friends were starving. That was
the story she told my father. It was a probable one--was it not?"
Arthur bowed his head, but did not reply.
"But the name that she gave was not a true one, as it appeared. My
father had sent an _Expedicion_ to relieve these people, and they had
found among the dead the person whom this young girl--the
stranger--assumed to be. That was their report. The name of the young
girl who was found dead and the name of the young girl who came to us
was the same. It was Grace Conroy."
Arthur's face did not move a muscle, nor did he once take his eyes from
the drooping lids of his companion.
"It was a grave matter--a very grave matter. And it was the more
surprising because the young girl had at first given another name--the
name of Grace Ashley--which she afterwards explained was the name of the
young man who helped her to escape, and whose sister she at first
assumed to be. My father was a good man, a kind man--a saint, Don
Arturo. It was not for him to know if she were Grace Ashley or Grace
Conroy--it was enough for him to know that she was alive, weak,
helpless, suffering. Against the advice of his officers, he look her
into his own house, into his own family, into his own fatherly heart, to
wait until her brother, or this Philip Ashley, should return. He never
returned. In six months she was taken ill--very ill--a little child was
born--Don Arturo--but in the same moment it died and the mother
died--both, you comprehend--both died--in my arms!"
"That was bad," said Arthur, curtly.
"I do not comprehend," said Donna Dolores.
"Pardon. Do not misunderstand me. I say it was bad, for I really believe
that this girl, the mysterious stranger, with the _alias_, was really
Grace Conroy."
Donna Dolores raised her eyes and stared at Arthur.
"And why?"
"Because the identification of the bodies by the _Expedicion_ was
hurried and imperfect."
"How know you this?"
Arthur arose and drew his chair a little nearer his fair client.
"You have been good enough to intrust me with an important and
honourable secret. Let me show my appreciation of that confidence by
intrusting you with one equally important. I knew that the
identification was imperfect and hurried, because _I_ was present. In
the report of the _Expedicion_ you will find the name, if you have not
already read it, of Lieutenant Arthur Poinsett. That was myself."
Donna Dolores raised herself to a sitting posture.
"But why did you not tell me this before?"
"Because, first, I believed that you knew that I was Lieutenant
Poinsett. Because, secondly, I did _not_ believe that you knew that
Arthur Poinsett and Philip Ashley were one and the same person."
"I do not understand," said Donna Dolores slowly, in a hard metallic
voice.
"I am Lieutenant Arthur Poinsett, formerly of the army, who, under the
assumed name of Philip Ashley, brought Grace Conroy out of Starvation
Camp. I am the person who afterwards abandoned her--the father of her
child."
He had not the slightest intention of saying this when he first entered
the room, but something in his nature, which he had never tried to
control, brought it out. He was neither ashamed of it nor apprehensive
of its results; but, having said it, leaned back in his chair, proud,
self-reliant, and self-sustained. If he had been uttering a moral
sentiment he could not have been externally more calm or inwardly less
agitated. More than that, there was a certain injured dignity in his
manner, as he rose, without giving the speechless and astonished woman
before him a chance to recover herself, and said--
"You will be able now to know whether your confidence has been
misplaced. You will be able now to determine what you wish done, and
whether I am the person best calculated to assist you. I can only say,
Donna Dolores, that I am ready to act either as your witness to the
identification of the real Grace Conroy, or as your legal adviser, or
both. When you have decided which, you shall give me your further
commands, or dismiss me. Until then, _adios_!"
He bowed, waved his hand with a certain grand courtesy, and withdrew.
When Donna Dolores raised her stupified head, the door had closed upon
him.
When this conceited young gentleman reached his own room, he was, I
grieve to say, to some extent mentally, and, if I may use the word,
morally exalted by the interview. More than that, he was in better
spirits that he had been since his arrival. From his room he strode out
into the corridor. If his horse had been saddled, he would have taken a
sharp canter over the low hills for exercise, pending the decision of
his fair client, but it was the hour of the noonday _siesta_, and the
courtyard was deserted. He walked to the gate, and looked across the
plain. A fierce wind held uninterrupted possession of earth and sky.
Something of its restlessness, just at that instant, was in Arthur's
breast, and, with a glance around the corridor, and a momentary
hesitation, as an opening door, in a distant part of the building,
suggested the possibility of another summons from Donna Dolores, he
stepped beyond the walls.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BULLS OF THE BLESSED TRINITY.
The absolute freedom of illimitable space, the exhilaration of the
sparkling sunlight, and the excitement of the opposing wind, which was
strong enough to oblige him to exert a certain degree of physical
strength to overcome it, so wrought upon Arthur, that in a few moments
he had thrown off the mysterious spell which the Rancho of the Blessed
Trinity appeared to have cast over his spirits, and had placed a
material distance between himself and its gloomy towers. The landscape,
which had hitherto seemed monotonous and uninspiring, now became
suggestive; in the low dome-shaped hills beyond, that were huddled
together like half-blown earth bubbles raised by the fiery breath of
some long-dead volcano, he fancied he saw the origin of the mission
architecture. In the long sweep of the level plain, he recognised the
calm, uneventful life that had left its expression in the patient
gravity of the people. In the fierce, restless wind that blew over it--a
wind so persistent and perpetual that all umbrage, except a narrow
fringe of dwarfed willows defining the line of an extract watercourse,
was hidden in sheltered cañons and the lee-ward slopes of the hills--he
recognized something of his own restless race, and no longer wondered at
the barrenness of the life that was turned towards the invader. "I
daresay," he muttered to himself, "somewhere in the lee-ward of these
people's natures may exist a luxurious growth that we shall never know.
I wonder if the Donna has not"--but here he stopped; angry, and, if the
truth must be told, a little frightened at the persistency with which
Donna Dolores obtruded herself into his abstract philosophy and
sentiment.
Possibly something else caused him for the moment to dismiss her from
his mind. During his rapid walk he had noticed, as an accidental, and by
no means an essential feature of the bleak landscape, the vast herds of
crawling, purposeless cattle. An entirely new and distinct impression
was now forming itself in his consciousness--namely, that they no longer
were purposeless, vagrant, and wandering, but were actually obeying a
certain definite law of attraction, and were moving deliberately toward
an equally definite object. And that object was himself!
Look where he would; before, behind, on either side, north, east, south,
west,--on the bleak hill-tops, on the slope of the _falda_, across the
dried-up _arroyo_, there were the same converging lines of slowly moving
objects towards a single focus--himself! Although walking briskly, and
with a certain definiteness of purpose, he was apparently the only
unchanging, fixed, and limited point in the now active landscape.
Everything that rose above the dead, barren level was now moving slowly,
irresistibly, instinctively, but unmistakably, towards one common
centre--himself! Alone and unsupported, he was the helpless, unconscious
nucleus of a slowly gathering force, almost immeasurable in its
immensity and power!
At first the idea was amusing and grotesque. Then it became picturesque.
Then it became something for practical consideration. And then--but
no!--with the quick and unerring instincts of a powerful will, he choked
down the next consideration before it had time to fasten upon or
paralyse his strength. He stopped and turned. The Rancho of the Blessed
Trinity was gone! Had it suddenly sank in the earth, or had he diverged
from his path? Neither; he had simply walked over the little elevation
in the plain beside the _arroyo_ and _corral_, and had already left the
Rancho two miles behind him.
It was not the only surprise that came upon him suddenly like a blow
between the eyes. The same mysterious attraction had been operating in
his rear, and when he turned to retrace his steps towards the Mission,
he faced the staring eyes of a hundred bulls not fifty yards away. As he
faced them, the nearest turned, the next rank followed their example,
the next the same, and the next, until in the distance he could see the
movement repeated with military precision and sequence. With a sense of
relief, that he put aside as quickly as he had the sense of fear, he
quickened his pace, until the nearest bull ahead broke into a gentle
trot, which was communicated line by line to the cattle beyond, until
the whole herd before him undulated like a vast monotonous sea. He
continued on across the _arroyo_ and past the _corral_ until the
blinding and penetrating cloud of dust, raised by the plunging hoofs of
the moving mass before him, caused him to stop. A dull reverberation of
the plain--a sound that at first might have been attributed to a passing
earthquake--now became so distinct that he turned. Not twenty yards
behind him rose the advance wall of another vast, tumultuous sea of
tossing horns and undulating backs that had been slowly following his
retreat! He had forgotten that he was surrounded.
The nearest were now so close upon him that he could observe them
separately. They were neither large, powerful, vindictive nor ferocious.
On the contrary, they were thin, wasted, haggard, anxious beasts,
economically equipped and gotten up, the better to wrestle with a six
months' drought, occasional famine, and the incessant buffeting of the
wind--wild and untamable, but their staring eyes and nervous limbs
expressed only wonder and curiosity. And when he ran toward them with a
shout, they turned, as had the others, file by file, and rank by rank,
and in a moment were, like the others, in full retreat. Rather, let me
say, retreated as the others _had_ retreated, for when he faced about
again to retrace his steps toward the Mission, he fronted the bossy
bucklers and inextricable horns of those he had driven only a few
moments ago before him. They had availed themselves of his diversion
with the rear-guard to return.
With the rapidity of a quick intellect and swift perceptions, Arthur saw
at once the resistless logic and utter hopelessness of his situation.
The inevitable culmination of all this was only a question of time--and
a very brief period. Would it be sufficient to enable him to reach the
_casa_? No! Could he regain the _corral_? Perhaps. Between it and
himself already were a thousand cattle. Would they continue to retreat
as he advanced? Possibly. But would he be overtaken meanwhile by those
in his rear?
He answered the question himself by drawing from his waistcoat pocket
his only weapon, a small "Derringer," and taking aim at the foremost
bull. The shot took effect in the animal's shoulder, and he fell upon
his knees. As Arthur had expected, his nearer comrades stopped and
sniffed at their helpless companion. But, as Arthur had not expected,
the eager crowd pressing behind over-bore them and their wounded
brother, and in another instant the unfortunate animal was prostrate and
his life beaten out by the trampling hoofs of the resistless, blind, and
eager crowd that followed. With a terrible intuition that it was a
foreshadowing of his own fate, Arthur turned in the direction of the
_corral_, and ran for his very life!
As he ran he was conscious that the act precipitated the inevitable
catastrophe--but he could think of nothing better. As he ran, he felt,
from the shaking of the earth beneath his feet, that the act had once
more put the whole herd in equally active motion behind him. As he ran,
he noticed that the cattle before him retreated with something of his
own precipitation. But as he ran, he thought of nothing but the awful
fate that was following him, and the thought spurred him to an almost
frantic effort. I have tried to make the reader understand that Arthur
was quite inaccessible to any of those weaknesses which mankind regard
as physical cowardice. In the defence of what he believed to be an
intellectual truth, in the interests of his pride or his self-love, or
in a moment of passion, he would have faced death with unbroken
fortitude and calmness. But to be the victim of an accident; to be the
lamentable sequel of a logical succession of chances, without motive or
purpose; to be sacrificed for nothing--without proving or disproving
anything; to be trampled to death by idiotic beasts, who had not even
the instincts of passion or revenge to justify them; to die the death of
an ignorant tramp, or any negligent clown--a death that had a ghastly
ludicrousness in its method, a death that would leave his body a
shapeless, indistinguishable, unrecognisable clod, which affection could
not idealise nor friendship reverence,--all this brought a horror with
it so keen, so exquisite, so excruciating, that the fastidious, proud,
intellectual being fleeing from it might have been the veriest dastard
that ever turned his back on danger. And superadded to it was a
superstitious thought that for its very horror, perhaps, it was a
retribution for something that he dared not contemplate!
And it was then that his strength suddenly flagged. His senses began to
reel. His breath, which had kept pace with the quick beating of his
heart, intermitted, hesitated, was lost! Above the advancing thunder of
hoofs behind him, he thought he heard a woman's voice. He knew now he
was going crazy; he shouted and fell; he rose again and staggered
forward a few steps and fell again. It was over now! A sudden sense of
some strange, subtle perfume, beating up through the acrid, smarting
dust of the plain, that choked his mouth and blinded his eyes, came
swooning over him. And then the blessed interposition of unconsciousness
and peace.
He struggled back to life again with the word "Philip" in his ears, a
throbbing brow, and the sensation of an effort to do something that was
required of him. Of all his experience of the last few moments only the
perfume remained. He was lying alone in the dry bed of the _arroyo_; on
the bank a horse was standing, and above him bent the dark face and
darker eyes of Donna Dolores.
"Try to recover sufficient strength to mount that horse," she said,
after a pause.
It was a woman before him. With that innate dread which all masculine
nature has of exhibiting physical weakness before a weaker sex, Arthur
struggled to rise without the assistance offered by the small hand of
his friend. That, however, even at that crucial moment, he so far
availed himself of it, as to press it, I fear was the fact.
"You came to my assistance alone?" asked Arthur, as he struggled to his
feet.
"Why not? We are equal now, Don Arturo," said Donna Dolores, with a
dazzling smile. "I saw you from my window. You were rash--pardon
me--foolish! The oldest vaquero never ventures a foot upon these plains.
But come; you shall ride with me. There was no time to saddle another
horse, and I thought you would not care to let others know of your
adventure. Am I right?"
There was a slight dimple of mischief in her cheek, and a quaint sparkle
in her dark eye, as she turned her questioning gaze on Arthur. He caught
her hand and raised it respectfully to his lips.
"You are wise as you are brave, Donna Dolores."
"We shall see. But at present you must believe that I am right, and do
as I say. Mount that horse--I will help you if you are too
weak--and--leave a space for me behind you!"
Thus adjured, Arthur leaped into the saddle. If his bones had been
broken instead of being bruised, he would still have found strength for
that effort. In another instant Donna Dolores' little foot rested on
his, and she lightly mounted behind him.
"Home now. Hasten; we will be there before any one will know it," she
said, as she threw one arm around his waist, with superb
unconsciousness.
Arthur lifted the rein and dropped his heels into the flanks of the
horse. In five minutes--the briefest, as it seemed to him, he had ever
passed--they were once more within the walls of the Blessed Trinity.
BOOK IV.
_DRIFTING._
CHAPTER I.
MR. AND MRS. CONROY AT HOME.
The manner in which One Horse Gulch received the news of Gabriel
Conroy's marriage was characteristic of that frank and outspoken
community. Without entering upon the question of his previous shameless
flirtation with Mrs. Markle--the baleful extent of which was generally
unknown to the camp--the nearer objections were based upon the fact that
the bride was a stranger and consequently an object of suspicion, and
that Gabriel's sphere of usefulness in a public philanthropic capacity
would be seriously impaired and limited. His very brief courtship did
not excite any surprise in a climate where the harvest so promptly
followed the sowing, and the fact, now generally known, that it was he
who saved the woman's life after the breaking of the dam at Black Cañon,
was accepted as a sufficient reason for his success in that courtship.
It may be remarked here that a certain grim disbelief in feminine
coyness obtained at One Horse Gulch. That the conditions of life there
were as near the perfect and original condition of mankind as could be
found anywhere, and that the hollow shams of society and weak artifices
of conventionalism could not exist in that sincere atmosphere, were two
beliefs that One Horse Gulch never doubted.
Possibly there was also some little envy of Gabriel's success, an envy
not based upon any evidence of his superior courage, skill, or strength,
but only of the peculiar "luck," opportunity, or providence, that had
enabled him to turn certain qualities very common to One Horse Gulch to
such favourable account.
"Toe think," said Jo. Briggs, "thet I was allowin'--only thet very
afternoon--to go up that cañon arter game, and didn't go from some
derned foolishness or other, and yer's Gabe, hevin' no call to go thar,
jest comes along, accidental like, and, dern my skin! but he strikes
onto a purty gal and a wife the first lick!"
"Thet's so," responded Barker, "it's all luck. Thar's thet Cy. Dudley,
with plenty o' money and wantin' a wife bad, and ez is goin' to
Sacramento to-morrow to prospect fur one, and he hez been up and down
that cañon time outer mind, and no dam ever said 'break' to him! No,
sir! Or take my own case; on'y last week when the Fiddletown coach went
over the bank at Dry Creek, wasn't I the fust man thar ez cut the
leaders adrift and bruk open the coach-door and helped out the
passengers? And wot passengers? Six Chinymen by Jinks--and a Greaser!
Thet's my luck."
There were few preliminaries to the marriage. The consent of Olly was
easily gained. As an act of aggression and provocation towards Mrs.
Markle, nothing could offer greater inducements. The superior gentility
of the stranger, the fact of her being a stranger, and the
expeditiousness of the courtship coming so hard upon Mrs. Markle's
fickleness commended itself to the child's sense of justice and feminine
retaliation. For herself, Olly hardly knew if she liked her prospective
sister; she was gentle, she was kind, she seemed to love Gabriel--but
Olly was often haunted by a vague instinct that Mrs. Markle would have
been a better match--and with true feminine inconsistency she hated her
the more for it. Possibly she tasted also something of the
disappointment of the baffled match-maker in the depths of her childish
consciousness.
It may be fairly presumed that the former Mrs. Devarges had confided to
no one but her lawyer the secret of her assumption of the character of
Grace Conroy. How far or how much more she had confided to that
gentleman was known only to himself; he kept her secret, whatever might
have been its extent, and received the announcement of her intended
marriage to Gabriel with the superior smile of one to whom all things
are possible from the unprofessional sex.
"Now that you are about to enter into actual possession," said Mr.
Maxwell, quietly buttoning up his pocket again, "I suppose you will not
require my services immediately."
It is said, upon what authority I know not, that Madame Devarges blushed
slightly, heaved the least possible sigh as she shook her head and said,
"I hope not," with an evident sincerity that left her legal adviser in
some slight astonishment.
How far her intended husband participated in this confidence I do not
know. He was evidently proud of alluding to her in the few brief days of
his courtship as the widow of the "great Doctor Devarges," and his
knowledge of her former husband to some extent mitigated in the public
mind the apparent want of premeditation in the courtship.
"To think of the artfulness of that man," said Sal, confidentially, to
Mrs. Markle, "and he a-gettin' up sympathy about his sufferin's at
Starvation Camp, and all the while a-carryin' on with the widder of one
o' them onfortunets. No wonder that man was queer! Wot you allowed in
the innocents o' yer heart was bashfulness was jest conscience. I never
let on to ye, Mrs. Markle, but I allus noticed thet thet Gabe never
could meet my eye."
The flippant mind might have suggested that as both of Miss Sarah's eyes
were afflicted with a cast, there might have been a physical impediment
to this exchange of frankness, but then the flippant mind never enjoyed
the confidence of this powerful young woman.
It was a month after the wedding, and Mrs. Markle was sitting alone in
her parlour, whither she had retired after the professional duties of
supper were over, when the front door opened, and Sal entered. It was
Sunday evening, and Sal had been enjoying the brief recreation of gossip
with the neighbours, and, as was alleged by the flippant mind before
alluded to, some coquettish conversation and dalliance with certain
youth of One Horse Gulch.
Mrs. Markle watched her handmaid slowly remove an immense straw "flat"
trimmed with tropical flowers, and then proceed to fold away an enormous
plaid shawl which represented quite another zone, and then her curiosity
got the better of her prudence.
"Well, and how did ye find the young couple gettin' on, Sal?"
Sal too well understood the value of coyly-withheld information to
answer at once, and with the instincts of a true artist, she affected to
misunderstand her mistress. When Mrs. Markle had repeated her question
Sal replied, with a a sarcastic laugh--
"Axin yer pardin fur manners, but you let on about the _young_ couple,
and _she_ forty if she's anythin'."
"Oh, no, Sal," remonstrated Mrs. Markle, with reproachful accents, and
yet a certain self-satisfaction; "you're mistaken, sure."
"Well," said Sal, breathlessly slapping her hands on her lap, "if pearl
powder and another woman's har and fancy doin's beggiles folks, it ain't
Sal ez is among the folks fooled. No, Sue Markle. Ef I ain't lived long
enough with a woman ez owns to thirty-three and hez--ef it wuz my last
words and God is my jedge--the neck and arms of a gal of sixteen, not to
know when a woman is trying to warm over the scraps of forty year with a
kind o' hash o' twenty, then Sal Clark ain't got no eyes, thet's all."
Mrs. Markle blushed slightly under the direct flattery of Sal, and
continued--
"Some folks says she's purty."
"Some men's meat is other men's pizen," responded Sal, sententiously,
unfastening an enormous black velvet zone, and apparently permitting her
figure to fall into instant ruin.
"How did they look?" said Mrs. Markle, after a pause, recommencing her
darning, which she had put down.
"Well, purty much as I allowed they would from the first. Thar ain't any
love wasted over thar. My opinion is thet he's sick of his bargin. She
runs the house and ev'ry thing that's in it. Jest look at the critter!
She's just put that thar Gabe up to prospecting all along the ledge
here, and that fool's left his diggin's and hez been running hither and
yon, making ridiklus holes all over the hill jest to satisfy thet woman,
and she ain't satisfied neither. Take my word for it, Sue Markle, thar's
suthin' wrong thar. And then thar's thet Olly"----
Mrs. Markle raised her eyes quickly, and put down her work. "Olly," she
repeated, with great animation--"poor little Olly! what's gone of her?"
"Well," said Sal, with an impatient toss of her head, "I never did see
what thar wuz in that peart and sassy piece for any one to take
to--leastwise a woman with a child of her own. The airs and graces thet
thet Olly would put on wuz too much. Why, she hedn't been nigh us for a
month, and the day afore the wedding what does that limb do but meet me
and sez, sez she, 'Sal, ye kin tell Mrs. Markle as my brother Gabe ez
goin' to marry a lady--a lady,' sez she. 'Thar ain't goin' to be enny
Pikes about our cabin.' And thet child only eight years! Oh, git out
thar! I ain't no patience!"
To the infinite credit of a much abused sex, be it recorded that Mrs.
Markle overlooked the implied slur, and asked--
"But what about Olly?"
"I mean to say," said Sal, "thet thet child hain't no place in thet
house, and thet Gabe is jest thet weak and mean spirited ez to let thet
woman have her own way. No wonder thet the child was crying when I met
her out in the woods yonder."
Mrs. Markle instantly flushed, and her black eyes snapped ominously. "I
should jest like to ketch--" she began quickly, and then stopped and
looked at her companion. "Sal," she said, with swift vehemence, "I must
see thet child."
"How?"
The word in Sal's dialect had a various, large, and catholic
significance. Mrs. Markle understood it, and repeated briefly--
"Olly--I must see her--right off!"
"Which?" continued Sal.
"Here," replied Mrs. Markle; "anywhere. Fetch her when ye kin."
"She won't come."
"Then I'll go to her," said Mrs. Markle, with a sudden and
characteristic determination that closed the conversation and sent Sal
back viciously to her unwashed dishes.
Whatever might have been the truth of Sal's report, there was certainly
no general external indication of the facts. The newly-married couple
were, to all appearances, as happy and contented, and as enviable to the
masculine inhabitants of One Horse Gulch, as any who had ever built a
nest within its pastoral close. If a majority of Gabriel's visitor were
gentlemen, it was easily attributed to the preponderance of males in the
settlement. If these gentlemen were unanimously extravagant in their
praise of Mrs. Conroy, it was as easily attributable to the same cause.
That Gabriel should dig purposeless holes over the hill-side, that he
should for the time abandon his regular occupation in his little modest
claim in the cañon, was quite consistent with the ambition of a
newly-married man.
A few evenings after this, Gabriel Conroy was sitting alone by the
hearth of that new house, which popular opinion and the tastes of Mrs.
Conroy seemed to think was essential to his new condition. It was a
larger, more ambitious, more expensive, and perhaps less comfortable
dwelling than the one in which he has been introduced to the reader. It
was projected upon that credit which a man of family was sure to obtain
in One Horse Gulch, where the immigration and establishment of families
and household centres were fostered even at pecuniary risks. It
contained, beside the chambers, the gratuitous addition of a parlour,
which at this moment was adorned and made attractive by the presence of
Mrs. Conroy, who was entertaining a few visitors that, under her
attractions, had prolonged their sitting until late. When the laugh had
ceased and the door closed on the last lingering imbecile, Mrs. Conroy
returned to the sitting-room. It was dark, for Gabriel had not lighted a
candle yet, and he was occupying his favourite seat and attitude before
the fire.
"Why! are _you_ there?" said Mrs. Conroy, gaily.
Gabriel looked up, and with that seriousness which was habitual to him,
replied--
"Yes."
Mrs. Conroy approached her lord and master, and ran her thin, claw-like
fingers through his hair with married audacity. He caught them, held
them for a moment with a kindly, caressing, and yet slightly embarrassed
air that the lady did not like. She withdrew them quickly.
"Why didn't you come into the parlour?" she said, examining him
curiously.
"I didn't admire to to-night," returned Gabriel, with grave simplicity,
"and I reckoned you'd get on as well without me."
There was not the slightest trace of bitterness nor aggrieved
sensitiveness in his tone or manner, and although Mrs. Conroy eyed him
sharply for any latent spark of jealousy, she was forced to admit to
herself that it did not exist in the quiet, serious man before her.
Vaguely aware of some annoyance in his wife's face, Gabriel reached out
his arm, and, lightly taking her around her waist, drew her to his knee.
But the very act was so evidently a recognition of a certain kind of
physical and moral weakness in the creature before him--so
professional--so, as Mrs. Conroy put it to herself,--"like as if I were
a sick man," that her irritation was not soothed. She rose quickly and
seated herself on the other side of the fireplace. With the same implied
toleration Gabriel had already displayed, he now made no attempt to
restrain her.
Mrs. Conroy did not pout as another woman might have done. She only
smiled a haggard smile that deepened the line of her nostril into her
cheek, and pinched her thin, straight nose. Then she said, looking at
the fire--
"Ain't you well?"
"I reckon not--not overly well."
There was a silence, both looking at the fire.
"You don't get anything out of that hill-side?" asked Mrs. Conroy at
last, pettishly.
"No," said Gabriel.
"You have prospected all over the ridge?" continued the woman,
impatiently.
"All over!"
"And you don't find anything?"
"Nothin'," said Gabriel. "Nary. Thet is," he added with his usual
cautious deliberation, "thet is, nothin' o' any account. The gold, ef
there is any, lies lower down in the gulch, whar I used to dig. But I
kept at it jest to satisfy your whim. You know, July, it _was_ a whim of
yours," he continued, with a certain gentle deprecatoriness of manner.
A terrible thought flashed suddenly upon Mrs. Conroy. Could Dr. Devarges
have made a mistake? Might he not have been delirious or insane when he
wrote of the treasure? Or had the Secretary deceived her as to its
location? A swift and sickening sense that all she had gained, or was to
gain, from her scheme, was the man before her--and that _he_ did not
love her as other men had--asserted itself through her trembling
consciousness. Mrs. Conroy had already begun to fear that she loved this
husband, and it was with a new sense of yearning and dependence that she
in her turn looked deprecatingly and submissively into his face and
said--
"It _was_ only a whim, dear--I dare say a foolish one. It's gone now.
Don't mind it!"
"I don't," said Gabriel, simply.
Mrs. Conroy winced.
"I thought you looked disappointed," she said after a pause.
"It ain't that I was thinkin' on, July; it's Olly," said Gabriel.
There is a limit even to a frightened woman's submission.
"Of course," she said, sharply; "Olly, Olly again and always. I ought to
have remembered that."
"Thet's so," said Gabriel with the same exasperating quiet. "I was
reckonin' jest now, ez there don't seem to be any likeliness of you and
Olly's gettin' on together, you'd better separate. Thar ain't no sense
goin' on this way, July--no sense et all. And the worst o' the hull
thing ez thet Olly ain't gettin' no kinder good outer it, no way!"
Mrs. Conroy was very pale and dangerously quiet as Mr. Conroy went on.
"I've allers allowed to send that child to school, but she don't keer to
go. She's thet foolish, thet Olly is, thet she doesn't like to leave me,
and I reckon I'm thet foolish too thet I don't like to hev her go. The
only way to put things square ez this"----
Mrs. Conroy turned and fixed her grey eyes upon her husband, but she did
not speak.
"You'd better go away," continued Gabriel, quietly, "for a while. I've
heerd afore now that it's the reg'lar thing fur a bride to go away and
visit her mother. You hain't got no mother," said Gabriel thoughtfully,
"hev ye?--that's bad. But you was a sayin' the other day suthin' about
some business you had down at 'Frisco. Now it would be about the nateral
sort o' thing for ye to go thar fur two or three months, jest till
things get round square with Olly and me."
It is probable that Gabriel was the only man from whom Mrs. Conroy could
have received this humiliating proposition without interrupting him with
a burst of indignation. Yet she only turned a rigid face towards the
fire again with a hysterical laugh.
"Why limit my stay to two or three months?" she said.
"Well, it might be four," said Gabriel, simply--"it would give me and
Olly a longer time to get things in shape."
Mrs. Conroy rose and walked rigidly to her husband's side.
"What," she said huskily, "what if I were to refuse?"
Gabriel looked as if this suggestion would not have been startling or
inconsistent as an abstract possibility in woman, but said nothing.
"What," continued Mrs. Conroy, more rapidly and huskily, "what if I were
to tell _you_ and that brat to go! What," she said, suddenly raising her
voice to a thin high soprano, "what if I were to turn you both out of
this house--_my_ house! off this land--_my_ land! Eh? eh? eh?" she
almost screamed, emphasising each interrogatory with her thin hand on
Gabriel's shoulder, in a desperate but impotent attempt to shake him.
"Certingly, certingly," said Gabriel calmly. "But thar's somebody at the
door, July," he continued quietly, as he rose slowly and walked into the
hall.
His quick ear had detected a knocking without, above the truculent pitch
of Mrs. Conroy's voice. He threw open the door, and disclosed Olly and
Sal standing upon the threshold.
It is scarcely necessary to say that Sal was first to recover the use of
that noble organ, the tongue.
"With chills and ager in every breath--it's an hour if it's five minutes
that we've stood here," she began, "pounding at that door. 'You're
interrupting the young couple, Sal,' sez I, 'comin' yer this time o'
night, breakin' in, so to speak, on the holiest confidences,' sez I;
'but it's business, and onless you hev thet to back you, Sarah Clark,' I
sez, 'and you ain't a woman ez ever turned her back on thet or them, you
ain't no call there.' But I was to fetch this child home, Mrs. Conroy,"
continued Sal, pushing her way into the little sitting-room, "and"----
She paused, for the room was vacant. Mrs. Conroy had disappeared.
"I thought I heerd"----said Sal, completely taken aback.
"It was only Gabe," said Olly, with the ready mendacity of swift
feminine tact. "I told you so. Thank you, Sal, for seeing me home. Good
night, Sal," and, with a dexterity that smote Gabriel into awesome and
admiring silence, she absolutely led the breathless Sal to the door and
closed it upon her before that astonished female could recover her
speech.
Then she returned quietly, took off her hat and shawl, and taking the
unresisting hand of her brother, led him back to his former seat by the
fire. Drawing a low stool in front of him, she proceeded to nestle
between his knees--an old trick of hers--and once more taking his hand,
stroked it between her brown fingers, looked up into his face, and
said--
"Dear old Gabe!"
The sudden smile that irradiated Gabriel's serious face would have been
even worse provocation to Mrs. Conroy than his previous conduct.
"What was the matter, Gabe?" said Olly; "what was she saying when we
came in?"
Gabriel had not, since the entrance of his sister, thought of Mrs.
Conroy's parting speech and manner. Even now its full significance did
not appear to have reached him.
"I disremember, Olly," he replied, looking down into Olly's earnest
eyes, "suthin' or other; she was techy, thet's all."
"But wot did she mean by saying that the house and lands was hers?"
persisted the child.
"Married folks, Olly," said Gabriel, with the lazy, easy manner of vast
matrimonial experience, "married folks hev little jokes and ways o'
thar own. Bein' onmarried yourself, ye don't know. 'With all my worldly
goods I thee endow,' thet's all--thet's what she meant, Olly. 'With all
my worldly goods I thee endow.' Did you hev a good time down there?"
"Yes," said Olly.
"You'll hev a nice time here soon, Olly," said Gabriel.
Olly looked incredulously across the hall toward the door of Mrs.
Conroy's chamber.
"Thet's it, Olly," said Gabriel, "Mrs. Conroy's goin' to 'Frisco to see
some friends. She's thet bent on goin' thet nothin' 'il stop her. Ye
see, Olly, it's the fashion fur new married folks to kinder go way and
visit absent and sufferin' friends. Thar's them little ways about the
married state, that, bein' onmarried yourself, you don't sabe. But it's
all right, she's goin'. Bein' a lady, and raised, so to speak, 'mong
fashi'n'ble people, she's got to folly the fashin. She's goin' for three
months, mebbe four. I disremember now wot's the fashi'n'ble time. But
she'll do it, Olly."
Olly cast a penetrating look at her brother.
"She ain't goin' on my account, Gabe?"
"Lord love the child, no! Wot put thet into your head, Olly? Why," said
Gabriel with cheerful mendacity, "she's been takin' a shine to ye o'
late. On'y to-night she was wonderin' whar you be."
As if to give credence to his words, and much to his inward
astonishment, the door of Mrs. Conroy's room opened, and the lady
herself, with a gracious smile on her lips and a brightly beaming eye,
albeit somewhat reddened around the lids, crossed the hall, and, going
up to Olly, kissed her round cheek.
"I thought it was your voice, and although I was just going to bed," she
added gaily, with a slightly apologetic look at her charming
dishabille, "I had to come in and be sure it was you. And where have you
been, you naughty girl? Do you know I shall be dreadfully jealous of
this Mrs. Markle. Come and tell me all about her. Come. You shall stay
with me to-night and we won't let brother Gabe hear our little
secrets--shall we? Come!"
And before the awe-struck Gabriel could believe his own senses she had
actually whisked the half-pleased, half-frightened child into her own
room, and he was left standing alone. Nor was he the less amazed,
although relieved of a certain undefined anxiety for the child, when, a
moment later, Olly herself thrust her curly head out of the door, and,
calling out, "Good-night, old Gabe," with a mischievous accent, shut and
locked the door in his face. For a moment Gabriel stood petrified on his
own hearthstone. Was he mistaken, and had Mrs. Conroy's anger actually
been nothing but a joke? Was Olly really sincere in her dislike of his
wife? There was but one apparent solution to these various and
perplexing problems, and that was the general incomprehensibility of the
sex.
"The ways o' woman is awful onsartin," said Gabriel, as he sought the
solitary little room which had been set apart for Olly, "and somehow I
ain't the man ez hez the gift o' findin' them out."
And with these reflections he went apologetically, yet, to a certain
extent, contentedly, as was his usual habit, to bed.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH THE TREASURE IS FOUND--AND LOST.
As no word has been handed down of the conversation that night between
Olly and her sister-in-law, I fear the masculine reader must view their
subsequent conduct in the light of Gabriel's abstract proportion. The
feminine reader--to whose well-known sense of justice and readiness to
acknowledge a characteristic weakness, I chiefly commend these
pages--will of course require no further explanation, and will be quite
ready to believe that the next morning Olly and Mrs. Conroy were
apparently firm friends, and that Gabriel was incontinently snubbed by
both of these ladies as he deserved.
"You don't treat July right," said Olly, one morning, to Gabriel, during
five minutes that she had snatched from the inseparable company of Mrs.
Conroy.
Gabriel opened his eyes in wonder. "I hain't been 'round the house much,
because I allowed you and July didn't want my kempany," he began
apologetically, "and ef it's shortness of provisions, I've fooled away
so much time, Olly, in prospectin' that ledge that I had no time to clar
up and get any dust. I reckon, may be the pork bar'l _is_ low. But I'll
fix thet straight soon, Olly, soon."
"But it ain't thet, Gabe--it ain't provisions--it's--it's--O! you ain't
got no sabe ez a husband--thar!" burst out the direct Olly at last.
Without the least sign of resentment, Gabriel looked thoughtfully at his
sister.
"Thet's so--I reckon thet _is_ the thing. Not hevin' been married afore,
and bein', so to speak, strange and green-handed, like as not I don't
exactly come up to the views of a woman ez hez hed thet experience. And
her husband a savang! a savang! Olly, and a larned man."
"You're as good as him!" ejaculated Olly, hastily, whose parts of speech
were less accurately placed than her feelings, "and I reckon she loves
you a heap better, Gabe. But you ain't quite lovin' enough," she added,
as Gabriel started. "Why, thar was thet young couple thet came up from
Simpson's last week, and stayed over at Mrs. Markle's. Thar was no end
of the attentions thet thet man paid to thet thar woman--fixin' her
shawl, histin' the winder and puttin' it down, and askin' after her
health every five minnits--and they'd sit and sit, just like
this,"----here Olly, in the interests of domestic felicity, improvised
the favourite attitude of the bridegroom, as far as the great girth of
Gabriel's waist and chest could be "clipped" by her small arms.
"Wot! afore folks?" asked Gabriel, looking down a little shamefully on
the twining arms of his sister.
"Yes--in course--afore folks. Why, they want it to be known thet they're
married."
"Olly," broke out Gabriel desperately, "your sister-in-law ain't thet
kind of woman. She'd reckon thet kind o' thing was low."
But Olly only replied by casting a mischievous look at her brother,
shaking her curls, and with the mysterious admonition, "Try it!" left
him, and went back to Mrs. Conroy.
Happily for Gabriel, Mrs. Conroy did not offer an opportunity for the
exhibition of any tenderness on Gabriel's part. Although she did not
make any allusion to the past, and even utterly ignored any previous
quarrel, she still preserved a certain coy demeanour toward him, that,
while it relieved him of an onerous duty, very greatly weakened his
faith in the infallibility of Olly's judgment. When, out of respect to
that judgment, he went so far as to throw his arms ostentatiously around
his wife's waist one Sunday, while perambulating the single long public
street of One Horse Gulch, and that lady, with great decision, quietly
slipped out of his embrace, he doubted still more.
"I did it on account o' what you said, Olly, and darn my skin if she
seemed to like it at all, and even the boys hangin' around seemed to
think it was queer. Jo Hobson snickered right out."
"When was it?" said Olly.
"Sunday."
Olly, sharply--"Where?"
Gabriel--"On Main Street."
Olly, apostrophising heaven with her blue eyes--"Ef thar ever was a
blunderin' mule, Gabe, it's YOU!"
Gabriel, mildly and thoughtfully--"Thet's so."
Howbeit, some kind of a hollow truce was patched up between these three
belligerents, and Mrs. Conroy did not go to San Francisco on business.
It is presumed that the urgency of her affairs there was relieved by
correspondence, for during the next two weeks she expressed much anxiety
on the arrival of the regular tri-weekly mails. And one day it brought
her not only a letter, but an individual of some importance in this
history.
He got down from the Wingdam coach amid considerable local enthusiasm.
Apart from the fact that it was well known that he was a rich San
Francisco banker and capitalist, his brusque, sharp energy, his easy,
sceptical familiarity and general contempt for and ignoring of
everything but the practical and material, and, above all, his
reputation for success, which seemed to make that success a wholesome
business principal rather than good fortune, had already fascinated the
passengers who had listened to his curt speech and half oracular axioms.
They had forgiven dogmatisms voiced in such a hearty manner, and
emphasised possibly with a slap on the back of the listener. He had
already converted them to his broad materialism--less, perhaps, by his
curt rhetoric than by the logic of his habitual business success, and
the respectability that it commanded. It was easy to accept scepticism
from a man who evidently had not suffered by it. Radicalism and
democracy are much more fascinating to us when the apostle is in
comfortable case and easy circumstances, than when he is clad in
fustian, and consistently out of a situation. Human nature thirsts for
the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but would
prefer to receive it from the happy owner of a latch-key to the Garden
of Eden, rather than from the pilferer who had just been ejected from
the premises.
It is probable, however, that the possessor of these admirable qualities
had none of that fine scorn for a mankind accessible to this weakness
which at present fills the breast of the writer, and, I trust, the
reader, of these pages. If he had, I doubt if he would have been
successful. Like a true hero, he was quite unconscious of the quality of
his heroism, and utterly unable to analyse it. So that, without any
previous calculations or pre-arranged plan, he managed to get rid of his
admirers, and apply himself to the business he had in hand without
either wilfully misleading the public of One Horse Gulch, or giving the
slightest intimation of what that real business was. That the general
interests of One Horse Gulch had attracted the attention of this
powerful capitalist--that he intended to erect a new Hotel, or "start"
an independent line of stage-coaches from Sacramento, were among the
accepted theories. Everybody offered him vast and gratuitous
information, and out of the various facts and theories submitted to him
he gained the particular knowledge he required without asking for it.
Given a reputation for business shrewdness and omnipresence in any one
individual, and the world will speedily place him beyond the necessity
of using them.
And so in a casual, general way, the stranger was shown over the length
and breadth and thickness and present and future of One Horse Gulch.
When he had reached the farther extremity of the Gulch he turned to his
escort--"I'll make the inquiry you ask now."
"How?"
"By telegraph--if you'll take it."
He tore a leaf from a memorandum-book and wrote a few lines.
"And you?"
"Oh, I'll look around here--I suppose there's not much beyond this?"
"No; the next claim is Gabriel Conroy's."
"Not much account, I reckon?"
"No? It pays him grub!"
"Well, dine with me at three o'clock, when and where you choose--you
know best. Invite whom you like. Good-bye!" And the great man's escort,
thus dismissed, departed, lost in admiration of the decisive promptitude
and liberality of his guest.
Left to himself, the stranger turned his footsteps in the direction of
Gabriel Conroy's claim. Had he been an admirer of Nature, or accessible
to any of those influences which a contemplation of wild scenery is apt
to produce in weaker humanity, he would have been awed by the gradual
transition of a pastoral landscape to one of uncouth heroics. In a few
minutes he had left the belt of sheltering pines and entered upon the
ascent of a shadowless, scorched, and blistered mountain, that here and
there in places of vegetation had put on the excrescences of scoria, or
a singular eruption of crust, that, breaking beneath his feet in
slippery grey powder, made his footing difficult and uncertain. Had he
been possessed of a scientific eye, he would have noted here and there
the evidences of volcanic action, in the sudden depressions, the abrupt
elevations, the marks of disruption and upheaval, and the river-like
flow of débris that protruded a black tongue into the valley below. But
I am constrained to believe the stranger's dominant impression was
simply one of heat. Half-way up the ascent he took off his coat and
wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Nevertheless, certain
peculiarities in his modes of progression showed him to be not
unfamiliar with mountain travel. Two or three times during the ascent he
stopped, and, facing about, carefully resurveyed the path beneath him.
Slight as was the action, it was the unfailing sign of the mountaineer,
who recognised that the other side of the mountain was as yet an
undetermined quantity, and was prepared to retrace his steps if
necessary. At the summit he paused and looked around him.
Immediately at his feet the Gulch which gave its name to the settlement,
and from which the golden harvest was gathered, broadened into a thickly
wooded valley. Its quivering depths were suffused by the incense of
odorous gums and balms liberated by the fierce heat of the noonday sun
that rose to his face in soft, tremulous waves, and filled the air with
its heated spices. Through a gap in the cañon to the west, a faint,
scarcely-distinguishable line of cloud indicated the coast range. North
and south, higher hills arose heavily terraced with straight colonnades
of pines, that made the vast black monolith on which he stood appear
blacker and barer by contrast. Higher hills to the east--one or two
peaks--and between them in the sunlight odd-looking, indistinct, vacant
intervals--blanks in the landscape as yet not filled in with colour or
expression. Yet the stranger knew them to be snow, and for a few moments
seemed fascinated--gazing at them with a fixed eye and rigid mouth,
until, with an effort, he tore himself away.
Scattered over the summit were numerous holes that appeared to have been
recently sunk. In one of them the stranger picked up a fragment of the
crumbled rock, and examined it carelessly. Then he slowly descended the
gentler slope towards the west, in the direction of a claim wherein his
quick eye had discovered a man at work. A walk of a few moments brought
him to the bank of red clay, the heap of tailings, the wooden
sluice-box, and the pan and shovel which constituted the appurtenances
of an ordinary claim. As he approached nearer, the workman rose from the
bank over which he was bending, and leaning on his pick, turned his face
to the new-comer. His broad, athletic figure, his heavy blonde beard,
and serious, perplexed eyes, were unmistakable. It was Gabriel Conroy.
"How are ye?" said the stranger, briskly extending a hand, which Gabriel
took mechanically. "You're looking well! Recollect _you_, but you don't
recollect me. Eh?" He laughed curtly, in a fashion as short and
business-like as his speech, and then fixed his eyes rather impatiently
on the hesitating Gabriel.
Gabriel could only stare, and struggle with a tide of thick-coming
remembrances. He looked around him; the sun was beating down on the old
familiar objects, everything was unchanged--and yet this face, this
voice.
"I am here on a matter of business," continued the stranger briskly,
dismissing the question of recognition as one unessential to the
business on hand--"and--what have you got to propose?" He leaned lightly
against the bank and supported himself by thrusting Gabriel's pickaxe
against the bank, as he waited a reply.
"It's Peter Dumphy," said Gabriel, in a awe-stricken voice.
"Yes. You recollect me now! Thought you would. It's five years and
over--ain't it? Rough times them, Gabriel--warn't they? Eh! But _you're_
lookin' well--doin' well, too. Hey? Well--what do you propose to do
about this claim? Haven't made up your mind--hey? Come then--I'll make a
proposition. First, I suppose your title's all right, hey?"
It was so evident from Gabriel's dazed manner that, apart from his
astonishment at meeting Peter Dumphy, he did not know what he was
talking about, that Dumphy paused.
"It's about these specimens," he added, eyeing Gabriel keenly, "the
specimens you sent me."
"Wot specimens?" said Gabriel vaguely, still lost in the past.
"The ones your wife sent me--all the same thing, you know."
"But it ain't," said Gabriel, with his old truthful directness. "You
better talk to her 'bout thet. Thet's her look-out. I reckon now she
_did_ say suthin'," continued Gabriel, meditatively, "about sendin' rock
to Frisco to be tested, but I didn't somehow get to take an interest in
it. Leastways, it's her funeral. You'd better see her."
It was Mr. Dumphy's turn to be perplexed. In his perfect misapprehension
of the character of the man before him, he saw only skilful business
evasion under the guise of simplicity. He remembered, moreover, that in
the earlier days of his prosperity as Dumphy and Jenkins, Commission
Merchants, he was himself in the habit of referring customers with whom
he was not ready to treat, to Jenkins, very much as he had just now been
referred to Mrs. Conroy.
"Of course," he said briskly; "only I thought I'd save time, which is
short with me to-day, by coming directly to you. May not have time to
see her. But you can write."
"Thet's so," said Gabriel, "p'r'aps it's just as well in the long run.
Ef ye don't see her, she'll know it ain't your fault. I'll let on that
much to her." And having disposed of this unimportant feature of the
interview, he continued, "Ye haven't heard nought o' Grace--ye mind
Grace? Dumphy!--a purty little girl ez was with me up thar. Ye ain't
heerd anything o' her--nor seen her, may be--hev you?"
Of course this question at such a moment was to Mr. Dumphy susceptible
of only one meaning. It was that Mrs. Conroy had confessed everything to
Gabriel, and that he wished to use Dumphy's complicity in the deceit as
a lever in future business transactions. Mr. Dumphy felt he had to deal
with two consummate actors--one of whom was a natural hypocrite. For the
first time in his life he was impatient of evil. We never admire truth
and sincerity so highly as when we find it wanting in an adversary.
"Ran off with some fellow, didn't she? Yes, I remember. You won't see
her again. It's just as well for you! I'd call her dead, anyway."
Although Dumphy was convinced that Gabriel's interest in the fate of his
sister was hypocritical, he was not above a Christian hope that this
might wound a brother's feelings. He turned to go.
"Can't you come back this way and hev a little talk about ol' times?"
said Gabriel, warming toward Dumphy under the magic of old associations,
and ignoring with provoking unconsciousness the sting of his last
speech. "There's Olly ez 'ud jest admire to see ye. Ye mind Olly?--the
baby, Grace's little sister, growed a fine likely gal now. See yer,"
continued Gabriel with sudden energy, putting down his pick and shovel,
"I'll jess go over thar with ye now."
"No! no!" said Dumphy quickly. "Busy! Can't! 'Nother time! Good-day; see
you again some time. So long!" and he hurriedly departed, retracing his
steps until the claim and its possessor were lost in the intervening
foliage.
Then he paused, hesitated, and then striking across the summit of the
hill, made his way boldly to Gabriel's cottage.
Either Mrs. Conroy was expecting him, or had detected him coming through
the woods, for she opened the door to him and took him into her little
parlour with a graciousness of demeanour and an elaboration of toilet
that would have been dangerous to any other man. But, like most men with
a deservedly bad reputation among women, Mr. Dumphy always rigidly
separated any weakness of gallantly from his business.
"Here only for a few moments. Sorry can't stay longer. You're looking
well!" said Mr. Dumphy.
Mrs. Conroy said she had not expected the pleasure of a personal
interview; Mr. Dumphy must be _so_ busy always.
"Yes. But I like to bring good news myself. The specimens you sent have
been assayed by first-class, reliable men. They'll do. No gold--but
eighty per cent silver. Hey! P'r'aps you expected it."
But Mr. Dumphy could see plainly from Mrs. Conroy's eager face that she
had not expected it.
"Silver," she gasped--"eighty per cent!"
He was mystified, but relieved. It was evident that she had not
consulted anybody else, and that he was first on the ground. So he said
curtly--
"What do you propose?"
"I don't know," began the lady. "I haven't thought"----
"Exactly!" interrupted Dumphy. "Haven't got any proposition. Excuse
me--but" (taking out his watch) "time's nearly up. Look here. Eighty per
cent's big thing! But silver mine takes gold mine to run it. All expense
first--no profit till you get down. Works, smelting--cost twenty per
cent. Here's my proposition. Put whole thing in joint-stock company; 100
shares; five millions capital. You take fifty shares. I'll take
twenty-five--dispose of other twenty-five as I can. How's that? Hey? You
can't say! Well--think of it!"
But all Mrs. Conroy could think of was two and a half millions! It
stared at her, stretching its gigantic ciphers across the room. It
blazed in golden letters on cheques,--it rose on glittering piles of
silver coin to the ceiling of the parlour. Yet she turned to him with a
haggard face, and said--
"But this--this money--is only in prospective."
"Cash your draft for the sum ten minutes after the stock's issued.
That's business."
With this certainty Mrs. Conroy recovered herself.
"I will talk--with--my husband," she said.
Mr. Dumphy smiled--palpably, openly, and shamelessly. Mrs. Conroy
coloured quickly, but not from the consciousness Mr. Dumphy attributed
to her, of detected cunning. She had begun to be ashamed of the position
she believed she occupied in this man's eyes, and fearful that he should
have discovered her husband's indifference to her.
"I've already seen him," said Mr. Dumphy quietly.
The colour dropped from Mrs. Conroy's cheeks.
"He knows nothing of this," she said faintly.
"Of course," said Dumphy half contemptuously, "he said so; referred to
you. That's all right. That's business."
"You did not tell him--you dared not"----she said excitedly.
Mr. Dumphy looked curiously at her for a moment. Then he rose and shut
the door.
"Look here," he said, facing Mrs. Conroy in a hard, matter-of-fact way,
"do you mean to say that what that man--your husband--said, was true?
That he knows nothing of you; of the circumstances under which you came
here?"
"He does not--I swear to God he does not," she said passionately.
It was inexplicable, but Mr. Dumphy believed her.
"But how will you explain this to him? You can do nothing without him."
"Why should _he_ know more? If he has discovered this mine, it is
_his_--free of any gift of mine--as independent of any claim of mine as
if we were strangers. The law makes him the owner of the mine that he
discovers, no matter on whose land it may be found. In personating his
sister, I only claimed a grant to the land. He has made the discovery
which gives it its value! Even that sister," she added with a sudden
flash in her eyes--"even that sister, were she living, could not take it
from him now!"
It was true! This woman, with whose weakness he had played, had
outwitted them all, and slipped through their fingers almost without
stain or blemish. And in a way so simple! Duped as he had been, he could
hardly restrain his admiration, and said quite frankly and heartily--
"Good--that's business!"
And then--ah me! this clever creature--this sharp adventuress, this
Anonyma Victrix began to cry, and to beg him not to tell _her husband_!
At this familiar sign of the universal feminine weakness, Dumphy picked
up his ears and arts again.
"Where's your proof that your husband is the first discoverer?" he said
curtly, but not unkindly. "Won't that paper that Dr. Devarges gave his
sister show that the doctor was really the discoverer of this lead?"
"Yes; but Dr. Devarges is dead, and I hold the paper."
"Good!" He took out his watch. "I've five minutes more. Now look here.
I'm not going to say that you haven't managed this thing well--you
have!--and that you can, if you like, get along without me--you can!
See! I'm not going to say that I went into this thing without the
prospect of making something out of it myself. I have! That's business.
The thing for you to consider now is this: understanding each other as
we do, couldn't you push this thing through better with my help--and
helping me--than to go elsewhere! Understand me! You could find a dozen
men in San Francisco who would make you as good an offer and better! But
it wouldn't be to their interest to keep down any unpleasant reminders
of the past as it would be mine. You understand?"
Mrs. Conroy replied by extending her hand.
"To keep my secret from every one--from _him_," she said earnestly.
"Certainly--_that's_ business."
Then these two artful ones shook hands with a heartfelt and loyal
admiration and belief for each other that I fear more honest folks might
have profited by, and Mr. Dumphy went off to dine.
As Mrs. Conroy closed the front door, Olly came running in from the back
piazza. Mrs. Conroy caught her in her arms and discharged her pent-up
feelings, and, let us hope, her penitence, in a joyful and passionate
embrace. But Olly struggled to extricate herself. When at last she got
her head free, she said angrily--
"Let me go. I want to see him."
"Who--Mr. Dumphy?" asked Mrs. Conroy, still holding the child, with a
half-hysterical laugh.
"Yes. Gabe said he was here. Let me go, I say!"
"What do you want with him?" asked her captor with shrill gaiety.
"Gabe says--Gabe says--let me go, will you? Gabe says he knew"----
"Whom?"
"My dear, dear sister Grace! There! I didn't mean to hurt you--but I
must go!"
And she did, leaving the prospective possessor of two and a half
millions, vexed, suspicious, and alone.
CHAPTER III.
MR. DUMPHY MEETS AN OLD FRIEND.
Peter Dumphy was true to his client. A few days after he had returned to
San Francisco he dispatched a note to Victor, asking an interview. He
had reasoned that, although Victor was vanquished and helpless regarding
the late discovery at One Horse Gulch, yet his complicity with Mrs.
Conroy's earlier deceit might make it advisable that his recollection of
that event should be effaced. He was waiting a reply when a card was
brought to him by a clerk. Mr. Dumphy glanced at it impatiently, and
read the name of "Arthur Poinsett." Autocrat as Dumphy was in his own
counting house and business circle, the name was one of such recognised
power in California that he could not ignore its claims to his
attention. More than that, it represented a certain respectability and
social elevation which Dumphy, with all his scepticism and democratic
assertion, could not with characteristic shrewdness afford to
undervalue. He said, "Show him in," without lifting his head from the
papers that lay upon his desk.
The door opened again to an elegant-looking young man, who lounged
carelessly into the awful presence without any of that awe with which
the habitual business visitors approached Peter Dumphy. Indeed, it was
possible that never before had Mr. Dumphy's door opened to one who was
less affected by the great capitalist's reputation. Nevertheless, with
the natural ease of good breeding, after depositing his hat on the
table, he walked quietly to the fireplace, and stood with his back
toward it with courteous, but perhaps too indifferent patience. Mr.
Dumphy was at last obliged to look up.
"Busy, I see," yawned Poinsett, with languid politeness. "Don't let me
disturb you. I thought your man said you were disengaged. Must have made
a mistake."
Mr. Dumphy was forced to lay aside his pen, and rise, inwardly
protesting.
"You don't know me by my card. I have the advantage, I think," continued
the young man with a smile, "even in the mere memory of faces. The last
time I saw you was--let me see--five years ago. Yes! you were chewing a
scrap of buffalo hide to keep yourself from starving."
"Philip Ashley!" said Mr. Dumphy in a low voice, looking hastily around,
and drawing nearer the stranger.
"Precisely," returned Poinsett somewhat impatiently, raising his own
voice. "That was my _nom de guerre_. But Dumphy seems to have been your
real name after all."
If Dumphy had conceived any idea of embarrassing Poinsett by the
suggestion of an _alias_ in his case, he could have dismissed it after
this half-contemptuous recognition of his own proper cognomen. But he
had no such idea. In spite of his utmost effort he felt himself
gradually falling into the same relative position--the same humble
subordination he had accepted five years before. It was useless to think
of his wealth, of his power, of his surroundings. Here in his own bank
parlour he was submissively waiting the will and pleasure of this
stranger. He made one more desperate attempt to regain his lost
prestige.
"You have some business with me, eh? Poinsett!" He commenced the
sentence with a dignity, and ended it with a familiarity equally
inefficacious.
"Of course," said Poinsett carelessly, shifting his legs before the
fire. "Shouldn't have called otherwise on a man of such affairs at such
a time. You are interested, I hear, in a mine recently discovered at One
Horse Gulch on the Rancho of the Blessed Innocents. One of my clients
holds a grant, not yet confirmed, to the Rancho."
"Who?" said Mr. Dumphy quickly.
"I believe that is not important nor essential for you to know until we
make a formal claim," returned Arthur quietly, "but I don't mind
satisfying your curiosity. It's Miss Dolores Salvatierra."
Mr. Dumphy felt relieved, and began with gathering courage and
brusqueness, "That don't affect"----
"Your mining claim; not in the least," interrupted Arthur quietly, "I am
not here to press or urge any rights that we may have. We may not even
submit the grant for patent. But my client would like to know something
of the present tenants, or, if you will, owners. You represent them, I
think? A man and wife. The woman appears first as a spinster, assuming
to be a Miss Grace Conroy, to whom an alleged transfer of an alleged
grant was given. She next appears as the wife of one Gabriel Conroy, who
is, I believe, an alleged brother of the alleged Miss Grace Conroy.
You'll admit, I think, it's a pretty mixed business, and would make a
pretty bad showing in court. But this adjudicature we are not yet
prepared to demand. What we want to know is this--and I came to you,
Dumphy, as the man most able to tell us. Is the sister or the brother
real--or are they both impostors? Is there a legal marriage? Of course
_your_ legal interest is not jeopardised in any event."
Mr. Dumphy partly regained his audacity.
"_You_ ought to know--_you_ ran away with the real Grace Conroy," he
said, putting his hands in his pockets.
"Did I? Then this is not she, if I understand you. Thanks! And the
brother"----
"Is Gabriel Conroy, if I know the man," said Dumphy shortly, feeling
that he had been entrapped into a tacit admission. "But why don't you
satisfy yourself?"
"You have been good enough to render it unnecessary," said Arthur, with
a smile. "I do not doubt your word. I am, I trust, too much of a lawyer
to doubt the witness I myself have summoned. But who is this woman?"
"The widow of Dr. Devarges."
"The _real_ thing?"
"Yes, unless Grace Conroy should lay claim to that title and privilege.
The old man seems to have been pretty much divided in his property and
affections."
The shaft did not apparently reach Arthur, for whom it was probably
intended. He only said, "Have you legal evidence that she _is_ the
widow? If it were a fact, and a case of ill-treatment or hardship, why
it might abate the claim of my client, who is a rich woman, and whose
sympathies are of course in favour of the real brother and real sister.
By the way, there is another sister, isn't there?"
"Yes, a mere child."
"That's all. Thank you. I sha'n't trespass further upon your time.
Good-day."
He had taken up his hat and was moving toward the door. Mr. Dumphy, who
felt that whatever might have been Poinsett's motives in this interview,
he, Dumphy, had certainly gained nothing, determined to retrieve
himself, if possible, by a stroke of audacity.
"One moment," he said, as Poinsett was carefully settling his hat over
his curls. "You know whether this girl is living or not. What has become
of her?"
"But I don't," returned Poinsett calmly, "or I shouldn't come to _you_."
There was something about Poinsett's manner that prevented Dumphy from
putting him in the category of "all men," that both in his haste and his
deliberation Mr. Dumphy was apt to say "were liars."
"When and where did you see her last?" he asked less curtly.
"I left her at a hunter's cabin near the North Fork while I went back
for help. I was too late. A relief party from the valley had already
discovered the other dead. When I returned for Grace she was
gone--possibly with the relief party. I always supposed it was the
expedition that succoured you."
There was a pause, in which these two scamps looked at each other. It
will be remembered that both had deceived the relief party in reference
to their connexions with the unfortunate dead. Neither believed,
however, that the other was aware of the fact. But the inferior scamp
was afraid to ask another question that might disclose his own
falsehood; and the question which might have been an embarrassing one to
Arthur, and have changed his attitude toward Dumphy, remained unasked.
Not knowing the reason of Dumphy's hesitation, Arthur was satisfied of
his ignorance, and was still left the master. He nodded carelessly to
Dumphy and withdrew.
As he left the room he brushed against a short, thick-set man, who was
entering at the same moment. Some instinct of mutual repulsion caused
the two men to look at each other. Poinsett beheld a sallow face, that,
in spite of its belonging to a square figure, seemed to have a
consumptive look; a face whose jaw was narrow and whose lips were always
half-parted over white, large, and protruding teeth; a mouth that
apparently was always breathless--a mouth that Mr. Poinsett remembered
as the distinguishing and unpleasant feature of some one vaguely known
to him professionally. As the mouth gasped and parted further in
recognition, Poinsett nodded carelessly in return, and attributing his
repulsion to that extraordinary feature thought no more about it.
Not so the new-comer. He glanced suspiciously after Arthur and then at
Mr. Dumphy. The latter, who had recovered his presence of mind and his
old audacity, turned them instantly upon him.
"Well! What have you got to propose?" he said, with his usual curt
formula.
"It is you have something to say; you sent for _me_," said his visitor.
"Yes. You left me to find out that there was another grant to that mine.
What does all this mean, Ramirez?"
Victor raised his eyes and yellow fringes to the ceiling, and said, with
a shrug--
"_Quien sabe?_ there are grants and grants!"
"So it seems. But I suppose you know that we have a title now better
than any grant--a mineral discovery."
Victor bowed and answered with his teeth, "_We_, eh?"
"Yes, I am getting up a company for her husband."
"Her husband--good!"
Dumphy looked at his accomplice keenly. There was something in Victor's
manner that was vaguely suspicious. Dumphy, who was one of those men to
whose courage the habit of success in all things was essential, had been
a little shaken by his signal defeat in his interview with Poinsett, and
now became irritable.
"Yes--her husband. What have you got to propose about it, eh? Nothing?
Well, look here, I sent for you to say that as everything now is legal
and square, you might as well dry up in regard to her former relations
or your first scheme. You sabe?" Dumphy became slangy as he lost his
self-control. "You are to know nothing about Miss Grace Conroy."
"And there is no more any sister, eh--only a wife?"
"Exactly."
"So."
"You will of course get something for these preliminary steps of yours,
although you understand they have been useless, and that your claim is
virtually dead. You are, in fact, in no way connected with her present
success. Unless--unless," added Dumphy, with a gratuitous malice that
defeat had engendered, "unless you expect something for having been the
means of making a match between her and Gabriel."
Victor turned a little more yellow in the thin line over his teeth. "Ha!
ha! good--a joke," he laughed. "No, I make no charge to you for that;
not even to you. No--ha! ha!" At the same moment had Mr. Dumphy known
what was passing in his mind he would have probably moved a little
nearer the door of his counting-room.
"There's nothing we can pay you for but silence. We may as well
understand each other regarding that. That's your interest; it's ours
only so far as Mrs. Conroy's social standing is concerned, for I warn
you that exposure might seriously compromise you in a business way,
while it would not hurt us. I could get the value of Gabriel's claim to
the mine advanced to-morrow, if the whole story were known to-night. If
you remember, the only evidence of a previous discovery exists in a
paper in our possession. Perhaps we pay you for that. Consider it so, if
you like. Consider also that any attempt to get hold of it legally or
otherwise would end in its destruction. Well, what do you say? All
right. When the stock is issued I'll write you a cheque: or perhaps
you'd take a share of stock?"
"I would prefer the money," said Victor, with a peculiar laugh.
Dumphy affected to take no notice of the sarcasm. "Your head is level,
Victor," he said, returning to his papers. "Don't meddle with stocks.
Good day!"
Victor moved toward the door. "By the way, Victor," said Dumphy, looking
up, calmly, "if you know the owner of this lately discovered grant, you
might intimate that any litigation wouldn't pay. That's what I told
their counsel a moment ago."
"Poinsett?" asked Victor, pausing, with his hand on the door.
"Yes! But as he also happens to be Philip Ashley--the chap who ran off
with Grace Conroy, you had better go and see him. Perhaps he can help
you better than I. Good day."
And, turning from the petrified Victor, Mr. Dumphy, conscious that he
had fully regained his prestige, rang his bell to admit the next
visitor.
CHAPTER IV.
MR. JACK HAMLIN TAKES A HOLIDAY.
For some weeks Mr. Hamlin had not been well, or, as he more happily
expressed it, had been "off colour." The celebrated Dr. Duchesne, an
ex-army surgeon, after a careful diagnosis, had made several inquiries
of Jack, in a frank way that delighted Mr. Hamlin, and then had said
very quietly--
"You are not doing justice to your profession, Jack. Your pulse is 75,
and that won't do for a man who habitually deals faro. Been doing pretty
well lately, and having a good time, eh? I thought so! You've been
running too fast, and under too high pressure. You must take these
weights off the safely valve, Jack--better take the blower down
altogether. Bank your fires and run on half steam. For the next two
months I shall run you. You must live like a Christian." Noticing the
horror of Jack's face, he added hastily, "I mean go to bed before
midnight, get up before you want to, eat more and drink less, don't play
to win, bore yourself thoroughly, and by that time I'll be able to put
you back at that table as strong and cool as ever. You used to sing,
Jack; sit down at the piano and give me a taste of your quality. * * *
There, that'll do; I thought so! You're out of practice and voice. Do
that every day, for a week, and it will come easier. I haven't seen you
stop and talk to a child for a month. What's become of that little
boot-black that you used to bedevil? I've a devilish good mind to send
you to a foundling hospital for the good of the babies and yourself.
Find out some poor ranchero with a dozen children, and teach 'em
singing. Don't mind what you eat, as long as you eat regularly. I'd have
more hopes of you, Jack, if I'd dragged you out of Starvation Camp, in
the Sierras, as I did a poor fellow six years ago, than finding you here
in these luxurious quarters. Come! Do as I say, and I'll stop that
weariness, dissipate that giddiness, get rid of that pain, lower that
pulse, and put you back where you were. I don't like your looks, Jack,
at all. I'd buck against any bank you ran, all night."
From which the intelligent reader will, I hope and trust, perceive that
this popular doctor's ideas of propriety resided wholly in his
intentions. With the abstract morality of Hamlin's profession as a
gambler he did not meddle; with his competency to practise that
profession only was he concerned. Indeed, so frank was he in his
expression, that a few days later he remarked to a popular clergyman, "I
must put you under the same treatment as I did Jack Hamlin--do you know
him?--a gambler and a capital fellow; you remind me of him. Same kind of
trouble--cured him as I will you." And he did.
The result of which advice was that in two weeks Mr. Jack Hamlin found
himself dreadfully bored and _ennuyé_, but loyal to his trust with his
physician, wandering in the lower coast counties. At San Luis Rey, he
attended a bull-fight, and was sorely tempted to back the bull heavily,
and even conceived the idea of introducing a grizzly bear, taking all
the odds himself, but remembered his promise, and fled the fascination.
And so the next day, in a queer old-fashioned diligence, he crossed the
coast range, and drifted into the quiet Mission of San Antonio. Here he
was so done up and bored with the journey and the unpromising aspect of
the town, that he quietly yielded his usual profane badinage of the
landlord to his loyal henchman and negro body-servant, "Pete," and went
to bed at the solitary "Fonda," in the usual flea-infested bedroom of
the Spanish California inn.
"What does she look like, Pete?" said Jack, languidly.
Pete, who was familiar with his master's peculiarities of speech, knew
that the feminine pronoun referred to the town, and responded with great
gravity--
"De fac' is, Mahs Jack, dah don't peah to be much show heah foh you.
Deys playin' three-card monte in the bah room, but 'taint no squar game.
It 'ud do you no good, it might jess rile you. Deys a fass pinto hoss
hitched to a poss in de yard--a hoss dat de owner don't seem to
understand nohow. If you was right smart agin, I might let you go down
thar and get a bet outer some o' dem Greasers. But 'twon't do nohow.
Deys a kind o' school--Sunday-school, I reckon--nex doah. Lots o' little
children saying prayers, singin' and praisin' de Lord, sah."
"What day is this?" asked Jack, with sudden trepidation.
"Sunday, sah."
Jack uttered a plaintive groan and rolled over.
"Give one of these children a quarter, and tell him there's another
quarter waiting for him up here."
"You won't get no child to fool wid dis day, Mahs Jack, shuah. Deys
bound to get licked when dey goes. Folks is mighty hard on dem boys,
Sunday, sah; and it's de Lord's day, Mahs Jack."
Partly for the sake of horrifying his attendant, who notwithstanding his
evil associations was very devout, Jack gave way to violent denunciation
of any system of theology that withheld children from romping with him
any day he might select.
"Open that window," he groaned, finally, "and shove the bed alongside of
it. That'll do. Hand me that novel. You needn't read to me to-day; you
can finish that Volney's 'Ruins' another time."
It may be remarked here that it had been Jack's invalid habit to get
Pete to read to him. As he had provided himself with such books as were
objectionable to Pete, as they were always utterly incomprehensible when
filtered through his dialect, and as he always made the reader repeat
the more difficult words, he extracted from this diversion a delicious
enjoyment, which Pete never suspected.
"You can go now," he said, when Pete had arranged him comfortably. "I
shan't want you this afternoon. Take some money. I reckon you won't find
any church of your kind here, but if anybody interferes with you, jest
lambaste him! If you can't do it, jest spot him, and _I_ will!" (Mr.
Hamlin never allowed anybody but himself to object to his follower's
religious tendencies.) "Have a good time, Pete! Don't tangle yourself up
if you can help it. The liquor about here is jest pizen."
With this parting adjuration Mr. Hamlin turned over and tried to devote
himself to his book. But after reading a few lines the letters somehow
got blurred and indistinct, and he was obliged to put the book down with
a much graver recollection of the doctor's warning than he had ever had
before. He was obliged to confess to a singular weariness and lassitude
that had become habitual, and to admit that he had more pain at times
than--as he put it--"a man ought to have." The idea of his becoming
blind or paralysed dawned upon him gradually, at first humorously;
wondering if he couldn't deal faro as well without the use of his legs,
for instance, which were of no account to a man under the table; if
there could not be raised cards for the blind as well as raised letters.
The idea of feeling a "pair" or a "flush" amused him greatly, and then
he remembered more gravely poor Gordon, who, becoming gradually
paralysed, blew his brains out. "The best thing he could do," he
soliloquised, seriously. The reflection, however, had left such a
depressing effect upon his mind that the exaltation of liquor for a
moment seemed to be the proper thing for him; but the next moment,
remembering his promise to the doctor, he changed his mind, and--with an
effort--his reflections.
For relief he turned his paling face to the window. It gave upon a dusty
courtyard, the soil of which was pulverised by the pawing of countless
hoofs during the long, dry summer; upon a tiled roof that rose above an
adobe wall, over which again rose the two square whitewashed towers of
the Mission church. Between these towers he caught a glimpse of dark
green foliage, and beyond this the shining sea.
It was very hot and dry. Scarcely a wave of air stirred the curtains of
the window. That afternoon the trade-winds which usually harried and
bullied the little Mission of San Antonio did not blow, and a writhing
weeping willow near the window, that whipped itself into trifling
hysterics on the slightest pretext, was surprised into a stony silence.
Even the sea beyond glittered and was breathless. It reminded Jack of
the mouth of the man he met in Sacramento at the hotel, and again had
quarrelled with in San Francisco. And there, absolutely, was the man,
the very man, gazing up at the hotel from the shadows of the courtyard.
Jack was instantly and illogically furious. Had Pete been there he
would at once have sent an insulting message; but, while he was looking
at him, a sound rose upon the air which more pleasantly arrested his
attention.
It was an organ. Not a very fine instrument, nor skilfully played; but
an instrument that Jack was passionately fond of. I forgot to say that
he had once occupied the position of organist in the Second Presbyterian
Church of Sacramento, until a growing and more healthy public sentiment
detected an incongruity between his secular and Sunday occupations, and
a prominent deacon, a successful liquor-dealer, demanded his
resignation. Although he afterwards changed his attentions to a piano,
he never entirely lost his old affections. To become the possessor of a
large organ, to introduce it gradually, educating the public taste, as a
special feature of a first-class gambling saloon, had always been one of
Jack's wildest ambitions. So he raised himself upon his elbow and
listened. He could see also that the adjacent building was really a
recent addition to the old Mission church, and that what appeared to be
a recess in the wall was only a deeply embrasured window. Presently a
choir of fresh young voices joined the organ. Mr. Hamlin listened more
attentively; it was one of Mozart's masses with which he was familiar.
For a few moments he forgot his pain and lassitude, and lying there
hummed in unison. And then, like a true enthusiast, unmindful of his
surroundings, he lifted his voice--a very touching tenor, well known
among his friends--and joined in, drowning, I fear, the feebler pipe of
the little acolytes within. Indeed, it was a fine sight to see this
sentimental scamp, lying sick nigh unto dissolution through a dissipated
life and infamous profession, down upon his back in the dingy _cuarto_
of a cheap Spanish inn, voicing the litanies of the Virgin. Howbeit,
once started in he sang it through, and only paused when the antiphonal
voices and organ ceased. Then he lifted his head, and, leaning on his
elbow, looked across the courtyard. He had hoped for the appearance of
some of the little singers, and had all ready a handful of coin to throw
to them, and a few of those ingenious epithets and persuasive arguments
by which he had always been successful with the young. But he was
disappointed.
"I reckon school ain't out yet," he said to himself, and was about to
lie down again, when a face suddenly appeared at the grating of the
narrow window.
Mr. Hamlin as suddenly became breathless, and the colour rose to his
pale face. He was very susceptible to female beauty, and the face that
appeared at the grating was that of a very beautiful Indian girl. He
thought, and was ready to swear, that he had never seen anything half so
lovely. Framed in the recess of the embrasure as a shrine, it might have
been a shadowed devotional image, but that the face was not so
angelically beautiful as it was femininely fascinating, and that the
large deeply fringed eyes had an expression of bright impatience and
human curiosity. From his secure vantage behind the curtain Mr. Hamlin
knew that he could not be seen, and so lay and absorbed this lovely
bronze apparition which his voice seemed to have evoked from the cold
bronze adobe wall. And then, as suddenly, she was gone, and the staring
sunlight and glittering sea beyond seemed to Mr. Hamlin to have gone
too.
When Pete returned at sunset, he was amazed and alarmed to find his
master dressed and sitting by the window. There was a certain brightness
in his eye and an unwonted colour in his cheek that alarmed him still
more.
"You ain't bin and gone done nuffin' agin de doctor's orders, Mahs
Jack?" he began.
"You'll find the whisky flask all right, unless you've been dippin' into
it, you infernal old hypocrite," responded Jack, cheerfully, accepting
the implied suspicion of his servant. "I've dressed myself because I'm
goin' to church to-night, to find out where you get your liquor. I'm
happy because I'm virtuous. Trot out that Volney's 'Ruins,' and wade in.
You're gettin' out o' practice, Pete. Stop. Because you're religious, do
you expect me to starve? Go and order supper first! Stop. Where in blank
are you going? Here, you've been gone three hours on an errand for me,
and if you ain't runnin' off without a word about it."
"Gone on an errand foh you, sah?" gasped the astonished Pete.
"Yes! Didn't I tell you to go round and see what was the kind of
religious dispensation here?" continued Jack, with an unmoved face.
"Didn't I charge you particularly to observe if the Catholic Church was
such as a professing Christian and the former organist of the Second
Presbyterian Church of Sacramento could attend? And now I suppose I've
got to find out myself. I'd bet ten to one you ain't been there at all!"
In sheer embarrassment Pete began to brush his master's clothes with
ostentatious and apologetic diligence, and said--
"I'se no Papist, Mahs Jack, but if I'd thought"----
"Do you suppose I'm going to sit here without my supper while you abuse
the Catholic Church--the only church that a gentlemen"----but the
frightened Pete was gone.
The Angelus bell had just rung, and it lacked a full half hour yet
before vespers, when Mr. Hamlin lounged into the old Mission church.
Only a few figures knelt here and there--mere vague, black shadows in
the gloom. Aided, perhaps, more by intuition than the light of the dim
candles on the high altar, he knew that the figure he looked for was not
among them; and seeking the shadow of a column he calmly waited its
approach. It seemed a long time. A heavy-looking woman, redolent of
garlic, came in and knelt nearly opposite. A yellow vaquero, whom Mr.
Hamlin recalled at once as one he had met on the road hither,--a man
whose Spanish profanity, incited by unruly cattle, had excited Jack's
amused admiration,--dropped on his knees, and with equally
characteristic volubility began a supplication to the Virgin. Then two
or three men, whom Jack recognised as the monte-players of the "Fonda,"
began, as it seemed to Jack, to bewail their losses in lachrymose
accents. And then Mr. Hamlin, highly excited, with a pulse that would
have awakened the greatest concern of his doctor, became nervously and
magnetically aware that some one else was apparently waiting and anxious
as himself, and had turned _his_ head at the entrance of each one of the
congregation. It was a figure Jack had at first overlooked. Safe in the
shadow of the column, he could watch it without being seen himself. Even
in the gloom he could see the teeth and eyes of the man he had observed
that afternoon--his old antagonist at Sacramento.
Had it been anywhere else Jack would have indulged his general and
abstract detestation of Victor by instantly picking a quarrel with him.
As it was, he determined upon following him when he left the church--of
venting on him any possible chagrin or disappointment he might then
have, as an excitement to mitigate the unsupportable dreariness of the
Mission. The passions are not so exclusive as moralists imagine, for Mr.
Hamlin was beginning to have his breast filled with wrath against
Victor, in proportion as his doubts of the appearance of the beautiful
stranger grew stronger in his mind, when two figures momentarily
darkened the church porch, and a rustle of silk stole upon his ear. A
faint odour of spice penetrated through the incense. Jack looked up, and
his heart stopped beating.
It was she. As she reached the stall nearly opposite, she put aside her
black veil, and disclosed the same calm, nymph-like face he had seen at
the window. It was doubly beautiful now. Even the strange complexion had
for Jack a bewildering charm. She looked around, hesitated for a moment,
and then knelt between the two monte-players. With an almost instinctive
movement Jack started forward, as if to warn her of the contaminating
contact. And then he stopped, his own face crimsoned with shame. For the
first time he had doubted the morality of his profession.
The organ pealed out; the incense swam; the monotonous voice of the
priest rose upon the close, sluggish air, and Mr. Jack Hamlin dreamed a
dream. He had dispossessed the cold, mechanical organist, and, seating
himself at the instrument, had summoned all the powers of reed and voice
to sing the pæans--ah me! I fear not of any abstract Being, but of
incarnate flesh and blood. He heard her pure, young voice lifted beside
his; even in that cold, passionless commingling there was joy
unspeakable, and he knew himself exalted. Yet he was conscious even in
his dream, from his own hurried breathing, and something that seemed to
swell in his throat, that he could not have sung a note. And then he
came back to his senses, and a close examination of the figure before
him. He looked at the graceful, shining head, the rich lace veil, the
quiet elegance of attire, even to the small satin slipper that stole
from beneath her silken robe--all united with a refinement and an air of
jealous seclusion, that somehow removed him to an immeasurable
distance.
The anthem ceased, the last notes of the organ died away, and the lady
rose. Half an hour before, Jack would have gladly stepped forward to
have challenged even a passing glance from the beautiful eyes of the
stranger; now a timidity and distrust new to the man took possession of
him. He even drew back closer in the shadow as she stepped toward the
pillar, which supported on its face a font of holy water. She had
already slipped off her glove, and now she leaned forward--so near he
could almost feel her warm breath--and dipped her long slim fingers into
the water. As she crossed herself with the liquid symbol, Jack gave a
slight start. One or two drops of holy water thrown from her little
fingers had fallen on his face.
CHAPTER V.
VICTOR MAKES A DISCOVERY.
Happily for Mr. Hamlin, the young girl noticed neither the effect of her
unconscious baptismal act, nor its object, but moved away slowly to the
door. As she did so, Jack stepped from the shadow of the column, and
followed her with eyes of respectful awe and yearning. She had barely
reached the porch, when she suddenly and swiftly turned and walked
hurriedly back, almost brushing against Mr. Hamlin. Her beautiful eyes
were startled and embarrassed, her scarlet lips parted and paling
rapidly, her whole figure and manner agitated and discomposed. Without
noticing him she turned toward the column, and under the pretext of
using the holy water, took hold of the font, and leaned against it, as
if for support, with her face averted from the light. Jack could see her
hands tighten nervously on the stone, and fancied that her whole figure
trembled as she stood there.
He hesitated for a moment, and then moved to her side; not audaciously
and confident, as was his wont with women, but with a boyish colour in
his face, and a timid, half-embarrassed manner.
"Can I do anything for you, Miss?" he said, falteringly. "You don't seem
to be well. I mean you look tired. Shan't I bring you a chair? It's the
heat of this hole--I mean it's so warm here. Shan't I go for a glass of
water, a carriage?"
Here she suddenly lifted her eyes to his, and his voice and presence of
mind utterly abandoned him.
"It's nothing," she said, with a dignified calm, as sudden and as
alarming to Jack as her previous agitation--"nothing," she added, fixing
her clear eyes on his, with a look so frank, so open, and withal, as it
seemed to Jack, so cold and indifferent, that his own usually bold
glance fell beneath it, "nothing but the heat and closeness; I am better
now."
"Shall I"----began Jack, awkwardly.
"I want nothing, thank you."
Seeming to think that her conduct required some explanation, she added,
hastily--
"There was a crowd at the door as I was going out, and in the press I
felt giddy. I thought some one--some man--pushed me rudely. I daresay I
was mistaken."
She glanced at the porch against which a man was still leaning.
The suggestion of her look and speech--if it were a suggestion--was
caught instantly by Jack. Without waiting for her to finish the
sentence, he strode to the door. To his wrathful surprise the lounger
was Victor. Mr. Hamlin did not stop for explanatory speech. With a
single expressive word, and a single dexterous movement of his arm and
foot, he tumbled the astonished Victor down the steps at one side, and
then turned toward his late companion. But she had been equally prompt.
With a celerity quite inconsistent with her previous faintness, she
seized the moment that Victor disappeared to dart by him and gain her
carriage, which stood in waiting at the porch. But as it swiftly drove
away, Mr. Hamlin caught one grateful glance from those wonderful eyes,
one smile from those perfect lips, and was happy. What matters that he
had an explanation--possibly a quarrel on his hands? Ah me! I fear this
added zest to the rascal's satisfaction.
A hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned and saw the face of the
furious Victor, with every tooth at a white heat, and panting with
passion. Mr. Hamlin smiled pleasantly.
"Why, I want to know!" he ejaculated, with an affectation of rustic
simplicity, "if it ain't you, Johnny. Why, darn my skin! And this is
your house? You and St. Anthony in partnership, eh? Well, that gets me!
And here I tumbled you off your own stoop, didn't I? I might have known
it was you by the way you stood there. Mightn't I, Johnny?"
"My name is not Johnny--_Carámba!_" gasped Victor, almost beside himself
with impatient fury.
"Oh, it's that, is it? Any relation to the _Carámbas_ of Dutch Flat? It
ain't a pretty name. I like Johnny better. And I wouldn't make a row
here now. Not to-day, Johnny; it's Sunday. I'd go home. I'd go quietly
home, and I'd beat some woman or child to keep myself in training. But
I'd go home first. I wouldn't draw that knife, neither, for it might cut
your fingers, and frighten the folks around town. I'd go home quietly,
like a good nice little man. And in the morning I'd come round to the
hotel on the next square, and I'd ask for Mr. Hamlin, Mr. Jack Hamlin,
Room No. 29; and I'd go right up to his room, and I'd have such a time
with him--such a high old time; I'd just make that hotel swim with
blood."
Two or three of the monte players had gathered around Victor, and seemed
inclined to take the part of their countryman. Victor was not slow to
improve this moment of adhesion and support.
"Is it dogs that we are, my compatriots?" he said to them bitterly; "and
he--this one--a man infamous!"
Mr. Hamlin, who had a quick ear for abusive and interjaculatory Spanish,
overheard him. There was a swift chorus of "_Carámba!_" from the allies,
albeit wholesomely restrained by something in Mr. Hamlin's eye which was
visible, and probably a suspicion of something in Mr. Hamlin's pocket
which was not visible. But the remaining portion of Mr. Hamlin was
ironically gracious.
"Friends of yours, I suppose?" he inquired, affably. "'_Carámbas_' all
of them, too! Perhaps they'll call with you? Maybe they haven't time and
are in a hurry now? If my room isn't large enough, and they can't wait,
there's a handy lot o' ground beyond on the next square--_Plaza del
Toros_, eh? What did you say? I'm a little deaf in this ear."
Under the pretence of hearing more distinctly, Jack Hamlin approached
the nearest man, who, I grieve to say, instantly and somewhat
undignifiedly retreated. Mr. Hamlin laughed. But already a crowd of
loungers had gathered, and he felt it was time to end this badinage,
grateful as it was to his sense of humour. So he lifted his hat gravely
to Victor and his friends, replaced it perhaps aggressively tilted a
trifle over his straight nose, and lounged slowly back to his hotel,
leaving his late adversaries in secure but unsatisfactory and
dishonourable possession of the field. Once in his own quarters, he
roused the sleeping Pete, and insisted upon opening a religious
discussion, in which, to Pete's great horror, he warmly espoused the
Catholic Church, averring, with several strong expletives, that it was
the only religion fit for a white man, and ending somewhat irreverently
by inquiring into the condition of the pistols.
Meanwhile Victor had also taken leave of his friends.
"He has fled--this most infamous!" he said; "he dared not remain and
face us! Thou didst observe his fear, Tiburcio? It was thy great heart
that did it!"
"Rather he recognised thee, my Victor, and his heart was that of the
coyote."
"It was the Mexican nation, ever responsive to the appeal of manhood and
liberty, that made his liver as blanched as that of the chicken,"
returned the gentleman who had retreated from Jack. "Let us then
celebrate this triumph with a little glass."
And Victor, who was anxious to get away from his friends, and saw in the
prospective _aguardiente_ a chance for escape, generously led the way to
the first wine-shop.
It chanced to be the principal one of the town. It had the generic
quality--that is, was dirty, dingy, ill-smelling, and yellow with
cigarette smoke. Its walls were adorned by various prints--one or two
French in origin, excellent in art, and defective in moral sentiment,
and several of Spanish origin, infamous in art, and admirable in
religious feeling. It had a portrait of Santa Anna, and another of the
latest successful revolutionary general. It had an allegorical picture
representing the Genius of Liberty descending with all the celestial
machinery upon the Mexican Confederacy. Moved apparently by the same
taste for poetry and personification, the proprietor had added to his
artistic collection a highly coloured American handbill representing the
Angel of Healing presenting a stricken family with a bottle of
somebody's Panacea. At the farther extremity of the low room a dozen
players sat at a green-baize table absorbed in monte. Beyond them,
leaning against the wall, a harp-player twanged the strings of his
instrument, in a lugubrious air, with that singular stickiness of touch
and reluctancy of finger peculiar to itinerant performers on that
instrument. The card-players were profoundly indifferent to both music
and performer.
The face of one of the players attracted Victor's attention. It was that
of the odd English translator--the irascible stranger upon whom he had
intruded that night of his memorable visit to Don José. Victor had no
difficulty in recognising him, although his slovenly and negligent
working-dress had been changed to his holiday antique black suit. He did
not lift his eyes from the game until he had lost the few silver coins
placed in a pile before him, when he rose grimly, and nodding brusquely
to the other players, without speaking left the room.
"He has lost five half-dollars--his regular limit--no more, no less,"
said Victor to his friend. "He will not play again to-night!"
"You know of him?" asked Vincente, in admiration of his companion's
superior knowledge.
"Si!" said Victor. "He is a jackal, a dog of the Americanos," he added,
vaguely intending to revenge himself on the stranger's former
brusqueness by this depreciation. "He affects to know our history--our
language. Is it a question of the fine meaning of a word--the shade of a
technical expression?--it is him they ask, not us! It is thus they treat
us, these heretics! _Carámba!_"
"_Carámba!_" echoed Vincente, with a vague patriotism superinduced by
_aguardiente_. But Victor had calculated to unloose Vincente's tongue
for his private service.
"It is the world, my friend," he said, sententiously. "These
Americanos--come they here often?"
"You know the great American advocate--our friend--Don Arturo
Poinsett?"
"Yes," said Victor, impatiently. "Comes he?"
"Eh! does he not?" laughed Vincente. "Always. Ever. Eternally. He has a
client--a widow, young, handsome, rich, eh?--one of his own race."
"Ah! you are wise, Vincente!"
Vincente laughed a weak spirituous laugh.
"Ah! it is a transparent fact. Truly--of a verity. Believe me!"
"And this fair client--who is she?"
"Donna Maria Sepulvida!" said Vincente, in a drunken whisper.
"How is this? You said she was of his own race."
"Truly, I did. She is _Americana_. But it is years ago. She was very
young. When the Americans first came, she was of the first. She taught
the child of the widower Don José Sepulvida, herself almost a child; you
understand? It was the old story. She was pretty, and poor, and young;
the Don grizzled, and old, and rich. It was fire and tow. Eh? Ha! Ha!
The Don meant to be kind, you understand, and made a rich wife of the
little _Americana_. He was kinder than he meant, and in two years,
_Carámba!_ made a richer widow of the Donna."
If Vincente had not been quite thrown by his potations, he would have
seen an undue eagerness in Victor's mouth and eyes.
"And she is pretty--tall and slender like the Americans, eh?--large
eyes, a sweet mouth?"
"An angel. Ravishing!"
"And Don Arturo--from legal adviser turns a lover!"
"It is said," responded Vincente, with drunken cunning and exceeding
archness; "but thou and I, Victor, know better. Love comes not with a
brief! Eh? Look, it is an old flame, believe me. It is said it is not
two months that he first came here, and she fell in love with him at
the first glance. _Absurdo! Disparátado!_ Hear me, Victor; it was an old
flame; an old quarrel made up. Thou and I have heard the romance before.
Two lovers not rich, eh? Good! Separation; despair. The Señorita marries
the rich man, eh?"
Victor was too completely carried away by the suggestion of his friend's
speech, to conceal his satisfaction. Here was the secret at last. Here
was not only a clue, but absolutely the missing Grace Conroy herself. In
this young _Americana_--this--widow--this client of her former lover,
Philip Ashley, he held the secret of three lives. In his joy he slapped
Vincente on the back, and swore roundly that he was the wisest of men.
"I should have seen her--the heroine of this romance--my friend.
Possibly, she was at mass?"
"Possibly not. She is Catholic, but Don Arturo is not. She does not
often attend when he is here."
"As to-day?"
"As to-day."
"You are wrong, friend Vincente," said Victor, a little impatiently. "I
was there; I saw her."
Vincente shrugged his shoulders and shook his head with drunken gravity.
"It is impossible, Señor Victor, believe me."
"I tell you I saw her," said Victor, excitedly. "_Borrachon!_ She was
there! By the pillar. As she went out she partook of _agua bendita_. I
saw her; large eyes, an oval face, a black dress and mantle."
Vincente, who, happily for Victor, had not heard the epithet of his
friend, shook his head and laughed a conceited drunken laugh.
"Tell me not this, friend Victor. It was not her thou didst see. Believe
me, I am wise. It was the Donna Dolores who partook of _agua bendita_,
and alone. For there is none, thou knowest, that has a right to offer
it to her. Look you, foolish Victor, she has large eyes, a small mouth,
an oval face. And dark--ah, she is dark!"
"'In the dark all are as the devil,'" quoted Victor, impatiently, "how
should I know? Who then _is_ she?" he demanded almost fiercely, as if
struggling with a rising fear. "Who is this Donna Dolores?"
"Thou art a stranger, friend Victor. Hark ye. It is the half-breed
daughter of the old commander of San Ysabel. Yet, such is the
foolishness of old men, she is his heiress! She is rich, and lately she
has come into possession of a great grant, very valuable. Thou dost
understand, friend Victor? Well, why dost thou stare? She is a recluse.
Marriage is not for her; love, love! the tender, the subduing, the
delicious, is not for her. She is of the Church, my Victor. And to think
that thou didst mistake this ascetic, this nun, this little brown
novice, this Donna Dolores Salvatierra for the little American coquette.
Ha! Ha! It is worth the fee of another bottle? Eh? Victor, my friend!
Thou dost not listen. Eh? Thou wouldst fly, traitor. Eh? what's that
thou sayst? Bobo! Dupe thyself!"
For Victor stood before him, dumb, but for that single epithet. Was he
not a dupe? Had he not been cheated again, and this time by a blunder in
his own malice? If he had really, as he believed, identified Grace
Conroy in this dark-faced devotee whose name he now learned for the
first time, by what diabolical mischance had he deliberately put her in
possession of the forged grant, and so blindly restored her the missing
property? Could Don Pedro have been treacherous? Could he have known,
could they all--Arthur Poinsett, Dumphy, and Julie Devarges--have known
this fact of which he alone was ignorant? Were they not laughing at him
now? The thought was madness.
With a vague impression of being shaken rudely off by a passionate hand,
and a drunken vision of a ghastly and passionate face before him
uttering words of impotent rage and baffled despair, Vincente, the wise
and valiant, came slowly and amazedly to himself, lying over the table.
But his late companion was gone.
CHAPTER VI.
AN EXPERT.
A cold, grey fog had that night stolen noiselessly in from the sea, and,
after possessing the town, had apparently intruded itself in the long,
low plain before the _hacienda_ of the Rancho of the Holy Trinity, where
it sullenly lingered even after the morning sun had driven in its
eastern outposts. Viewed from the Mission towers, it broke a cold grey
sea against the corral of the _hacienda_, and half hid the white walls
of the _hacienda_ itself. It was characteristic of the Rancho that,
under such conditions, at certain times it seemed to vanish entirely
from the sight, or rather to lose and melt itself into the outlines of
the low foot-hills, and Mr. Perkins, the English translator, driving a
buggy that morning in that direction, was forced once or twice to stop
and take his bearings anew, until the grey sea fell, and the _hacienda_
again heaved slowly into view.
Although Mr. Perkins' transformations were well known to his intimate
associates, it might have been difficult for any stranger to have
recognised the slovenly drudge of Pacific Street, in the antique dandy
who drove the buggy. Mr. Perkins' hair was brushed, curled, and darkened
by dye. A high stock of a remote fashion encompassed his neck, above
which his face, whitened by cosmetics to conceal his high complexion,
rested stiffly and expressionless as a mask. A light blue coat buttoned
tightly over his breast, and a pair of close-fitting trousers strapped
over his japanned leather boots, completed his remarkable _ensemble_. It
was a figure well known on Montgomery Street after three o'clock--seldom
connected with the frousy visitor of the Pacific Street den, and totally
unrecognisable on the plains of San Antonio.
It was evident, however, that this figure, eccentric as it was, was
expected at the _hacienda_, and recognised as having an importance
beyond its antique social distinction. For, when Mr. Perkins drew up in
the courtyard, the grave _major domo_ at once ushered him into the
formal, low-studded drawing-room already described in these pages, and
in another instant the Donna Dolores Salvatierra stood before him.
With a refined woman's delicacy of perception, Donna Dolores instantly
detected under this bizarre exterior something that atoned for it, which
she indicated by the depth of the half-formal curtsey she made it. Mr.
Perkins met the salutation with a bow equally formal and respectful. He
was evidently agreeably surprised at his reception, and impressed with
her manner. But like most men of ill-assured social position, he was a
trifle suspicious and on the defensive. With a graceful gesture of her
fan, the Donna pointed to a chair, but her guest remained standing.
"_I_ am a stranger to you, Señor, but _you_ are none to me," she said,
with a gracious smile. "Before I ventured upon the boldness of seeking
this interview, your intelligence, your experience, your honourable
report was already made known to me by your friends. Let me call myself
one of these--even before I break the business for which I have summoned
you."
The absurd figure bowed again, but even through the pitiable chalk and
cosmetics of its complexion, an embarrassed colour showed itself. Donna
Dolores noticed it, but delicately turned toward an old-fashioned
secretary, and opened it, to give her visitor time to recover himself.
She drew from a little drawer a folded, legal-looking document, and then
placing two chairs beside the secretary, seated herself in one. Thus
practically reminded of his duty, Mr. Perkins could no longer decline
the proffered seat.
"I suppose," said Donna Dolores, "that my business, although familiar to
you generally--although you are habitually consulted upon just such
questions--may seem strange to you, when you frankly learn my motives.
Here is a grant purporting to have been made to my--father--the late Don
José Salvatierra. Examine it carefully, and answer me a single question
to the best of your judgment." She hesitated, and then added--"Let me
say, before you answer yes or no, that to me there are no pecuniary
interests involved--nothing that should make you hesitate to express an
opinion which you might be called upon legally to prove. _That_ you will
never be required to give. Your answer will be accepted by me in
confidence; will not, as far as the world is concerned, alter the money
value of this document--will leave you free hereafter to express a
different opinion, or even to reverse your judgment publicly if the
occasion requires it. You seem astounded, Señor Perkins. But I am a rich
woman. I have no need to ask your judgment to increase my wealth."
"Your question is"----said Mr. Perkins, speaking for the first time
without embarrassment.
"Is that document a forgery?"
He took it out of her hand, opened it with a kind of professional
carelessness, barely glanced at the signature and seals, and returned
it.
"The signatures are genuine," he said, with business-like brevity; then
he added, as if in explanation of that brevity, "I have seen it before."
Donna Dolores moved her chair with the least show of uneasiness. The
movement attracted Mr. Perkins' attention. It was something novel. Here
was a woman who appeared actually annoyed that her claim to a valuable
property was valid. He fixed his eyes upon her curiously.
"Then you think it is a genuine grant?" she said, with a slight sigh.
"As genuine as any that receive a patent at Washington," he replied,
promptly.
"Ah!" said Donna Dolores, simply. The feminine interjection appeared to
put a construction upon Señor Perkins' reply that both annoyed and
challenged him. He assumed the defensive.
"Have you any reason to doubt the genuineness of this particular
document?"
"Yes. It was only recently discovered among Don José's papers, and there
is another in existence."
Señor Perkins again reached out his hand, took the paper, examined it
attentively, held it to the light and then laid it down. "It is all
right," he said. "Where is the other?"
"I have it not," said Donna Dolores.
Señor Perkins shrugged his shoulders respectfully as to Donna Dolores,
but scornfully of an unbusiness-like sex. "How did you expect me to
institute a comparison?"
"There is no comparison necessary if that document is genuine," said the
Donna, quickly.
Señor Perkins was embarrassed for a moment. "I mean there might be some
mistake. Under what circumstances is it held--who holds it? To whom was
it given?"
"That is a part of my story. It was given five years ago to a Dr.
Devarges--I beg your pardon, did you speak?"
Señor Perkins had not spoken, but was staring with grim intensity at
Donna Dolores. "You--said--Dr. Devarges," he repeated, slowly.
"Yes. Did you know him?" It was Donna Dolores' turn to be embarrassed.
She bit her lip and slightly contracted her eyebrows. For a moment they
both stood on the defensive.
"I have heard the name before," Mr. Perkins said at last, with a forced
laugh.
"Yes, it is the name of a distinguished _savant_," said Donna Dolores,
composedly. "Well--_he_ is dead. But he gave this grant to a young girl
named--named"--Dolores paused as if to recall the name--"named Grace
Conroy."
She stopped and raised her eyes quickly to her companion, but his face
was unmoved, and his momentary excitement seemed to have passed. He
nodded his head for her to proceed.
"Named Grace Conroy," repeated Donna Dolores, more rapidly, and with
freer breath. "After the lapse of five years a woman--an
impostor--appears to claim the grant under the name of Grace Conroy. But
perhaps finding difficulty in carrying out her infamous scheme, by some
wicked, wicked art, she gains the affections of the brother of this
Grace, and marries him as the next surviving heir." And Donna Dolores
paused, a little out of breath, with a glow under her burnished cheek
and a slight metallic quality in her voice. It was perhaps no more than
the natural indignation of a quickly sympathising nature, but Mr.
Perkins did not seem to notice it. In fact, within the last few seconds
his whole manner had become absent and preoccupied; the stare which he
had fixed a moment before on Donna Dolores was now turned to the wall,
and his old face, under its juvenile mask, looked still older.
"Certainly, certainly," he said at last, recalling himself with an
effort. "But all this only goes to prove that the grant may be as
fraudulent as the owner. Then, you have nothing really to make you
suspicious of your own claim but the fact of its recent discovery? Well,
that I don't think need trouble you. Remember your grant was given when
lands were not valuable, and your late father might have overlooked it
as unimportant." He rose with a slight suggestion in his manner that the
interview had closed. He appeared anxious to withdraw, and not entirely
free from the same painful pre-absorption that he had lately shown. With
a slight shade of disappointment in her face Donna Dolores also rose.
In another moment he would have been gone, and the lives of these two
people thus brought into natural yet mysterious contact have flowed on
unchanged in each monotonous current. But as he reached the door he
turned to ask a trivial question. On that question trembled the future
of both.
"This real Grace Conroy then I suppose has disappeared. And
this--Doctor--Devarges"--he hesitated at the name as something equally
fictitious--"you say is dead. How then did this impostor gain the
knowledge necessary to set up the claim? Who is _she_?"
"Oh, she is--that is--she married Gabriel Conroy under the name of the
widow of Dr. Devarges. Pardon me! I did not hear what you said. Holy
Virgin! What is the matter? You are ill. Let me call Sanchez! Sit here!"
He dropped into a chair, but only for an instant. As she turned to call
assistance he rose and caught her by the arm.
"I am better," he said. "It is nothing--I am often taken in this way.
Don't look at me. Don't call anybody except to get me a glass of
water--there, that will do."
He took the glass she brought him, and instead of drinking it threw back
his head and poured it slowly over his forehead and face as he leaned
backward in the chair. Then he drew out a large silk handkerchief and
wiped his face and hair until they were dry. Then he sat up and faced
her. The chalk and paint was off his face, his high stock had become
unbuckled, he had unbuttoned his coat and it hung loosely over his gaunt
figure; his hair, although still dripping, seemed to have become
suddenly bristling and bushy over his red face. But he was perfectly
self-possessed, and his voice had completely lost its previous
embarrassment.
"Rush of blood to the head," he said, quietly; "felt it coming on all
the morning. Gone now. Nothing like cold water and sitting posture. Hope
I didn't spoil your carpet. And now to come back to your business." He
drew up his chair, without the least trace of his former diffidence,
beside Donna Dolores, "Let's take another look at your grant." He took
it up, drew a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the
signature. "Yes, yes! signature all right. Seal of the Custom House.
Paper all regular." He rustled it in his fingers, "You're all right--the
swindle is with Madame Devarges. There's the forgery--there's this
spurious grant."
"I think not," said Donna Dolores, quietly.
"Why?"
"Suppose the grant is exactly like this in everything, paper, signature,
seal and all."
"That proves nothing," said Mr. Perkins, quickly. "Look you. When this
grant was drawn--in the early days--there were numbers of these grants
lying in the Custom House like waste paper, drawn and signed by the
Governor, in blank, only wanting filling in by a clerk to make them a
valid document. She!--this impostor--this Madame Devarges, has had
access to these blanks, as many have since the American Conquest, and
that grant is the result. But she is not wise, no! I know the
handwriting of the several copyists and clerks--I was one myself. Put me
on the stand, Donna Dolores--put me on the stand, and I'll confront her
as I have the others."
"You forget," said Donna Dolores, coldly, "that I have no desire to
legally test this document. And if Spanish grants are so easily made,
why might not this one of mine be a fabrication? You say you know the
handwriting of the copyists--look at this."
Mr. Perkins seized the grant impatiently, and ran his eye quickly over
the interlineations between the printed portions. "Strange!" he
muttered. "This is not my own nor Sanchez; nor Ruiz; it is a new hand.
Ah! what have we here--a correction in the date--in still another hand?
And this--surely I have seen something like it in the office. But
where?" He stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, but after an
effort at recollection abandoned the attempt. "But why?" he said,
abruptly, "why should this be forged?"
"Suppose that the other were genuine, and suppose that this woman got
possession of it in some wicked way. Suppose that some one, knowing of
this, endeavoured by this clever forgery to put difficulties in her way
without exposing her."
"But who would do that?"
"Perhaps the brother--her husband! Perhaps some one," continued Donna
Dolores, embarrassedly, with the colour struggling through her copper
cheek, "some--one--who--did--not--believe that the real Grace Conroy
was dead or missing!"
"Suppose the devil!--I beg your pardon. But people don't forge documents
in the interests of humanity and justice. And why should it be given to
_you_?"
"I am known to be a rich woman," said Donna Dolores. "I believe," she
added, dropping her eyes with a certain proud diffidence that troubled
even the preoccupied man before her, "I--believe--that is I am
told--that I have a reputation for being liberal, and--and just."
Mr. Perkins looked it her for a moment with undisguised admiration. "But
suppose," he said, with a bitterness that seemed to grow out of that
very contemplation, "suppose this woman, this adventuress, this
impostor, were a creature that made any such theory impossible. Suppose
she were one who could poison the very life and soul of any man--to say
nothing of the man who was legally bound to her; suppose she were a
devil who could deceive the mind and heart, who could make the very man
she was betraying most believe her guiltless and sinned against; suppose
she were capable of not even the weakness of passion; but that all her
acts were shrewd, selfish, pre-calculated even to a smile or a tear--do
you think such a woman--whom, thank God! such as _you_ cannot even
imagine--do you suppose such a woman would not have guarded against even
this? No! no!"
"Unless," said Donna Dolores, leaning against the secretary with the
glow gone from her dark face and a strange expression trembling over her
mouth, "unless it were the revenge of some rival."
Her companion started. "Good! It is so," he muttered to himself. "_I_
would have done it. I could have done it! You are right, Donna Dolores."
He walked to the window and then came hurriedly back, buttoning his
coat as he did so, and rebuckling his stock. "Some one is coming! Leave
this matter with me. I will satisfy you and myself concerning this
affair. Will you trust this paper with me?" Donna Dolores without a word
placed it in his hand. "Thank you," he said, with a slight return of his
former embarrassment, that seemed to belong to his ridiculous stock and
his buttoned coat rather than any physical or moral quality. "Don't
believe me entirely disinterested either," he added, with a strange
smile. "_Adios._"
She would have asked another question, but at that instant the clatter
of hoofs and sound of voices arose from the courtyard, and with a
hurried bow he was gone. The door opened again almost instantly to the
bright laughing face and coquettish figure of Mrs. Sepulvida.
"Well!" said that little lady, as soon as she recovered her breath. "For
a religiously inclined young person and a notorious recluse, I must say
you certainly have more masculine company than falls to the lot of the
worldly. Here I ran across a couple of fellows hanging around the _casa_
as I drove up, and come in only to find you closeted with an old
exquisite. Who was it--another lawyer, dear? I declare, it's too bad.
_I_ have only one!"
"And that one is enough, eh?" smiled Donna Dolores, somewhat gravely, as
she playfully tapped Mrs. Sepulvida's fair cheek with her fan.
"Oh yes!" she blushed a little coquettishly--"of course! And here I rode
over, post haste, to tell you the news. But first, tell me who is that
wicked, dashing-looking fellow outside the courtyard? It can't be the
lawyer's clerk."
"I don't know who you mean; but it is, I suppose," said Donna Dolores, a
little wearily. "But tell me the news. I am all attention."
But Mrs. Sepulvida ran to the deep embrasured window and peeped out. "It
isn't the lawyer, for he is driving away in his buggy, as if he were
hurrying to get out of the fog, and my gentleman still remains.
Dolores!" said Mrs. Sepulvida, suddenly facing her friend with an
expression of mock gravity and humour, "this won't do! Who is that
cavalier?"
With a terrible feeling that she was about to meet the keen eyes of
Victor, Donna Dolores drew near the window from the side where she could
look out without being herself seen. Her first glance at the figure of
the stranger satisfied her that her fears were unfounded; it was not
Victor. Reassured, she drew the curtain more boldly. At that instant the
mysterious horseman wheeled, and she met full in her own the black eyes
of Mr. Jack Hamlin. Donna Dolores instantly dropped the curtain and
turned to her friend.
"I don't know!"
"Truly, Dolores?"
"Truly, Maria."
"Well, I believe you. I suppose then it must be _me_!"
Donna Dolores smiled, and playfully patted Mrs. Sepulvida's joyous face.
"Well, then?" she said invitingly.
"Well, then," responded Mrs. Sepulvida, half in embarrassment and half
in satisfaction.
"The news!" said Donna Dolores.
"Oh--well," said Mrs. Sepulvida, with mock deliberation, "it has come at
last!"
"It has?" said Donna Dolores, looking gravely at her friend.
"Yes. He has been there again to-day."
"And he asked you?" said Donna Dolores, opening her fan and turning her
face toward the window.
"He asked me."
"And you said"----
Mrs. Sepulvida tripped gaily toward the window and looked out.
"I said"----
"What?"
"NO!"
BOOK V.
_THE VEIN._
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH GABRIEL RECOGNISES THE PROPRIETIES.
After the visit of Mr. Peter Dumphy, One Horse Gulch was not surprised
at the news of any stroke of good fortune. It was enough that he, the
great capitalist, the successful speculator, had been there! The
information that a company had been formed to develop a rich silver mine
recently discovered on Conroy's Hill was received as a matter of course.
Already the theories of the discovery were perfectly well established.
That it was simply a grand speculative _coup_ of Dumphy's--that upon a
boldly conceived plan this man intended to build up the town of One
Horse Gulch--that he had invented "the lead" and backed it by an
ostentatious display of capital in mills and smelting works solely for a
speculative purpose; that five years before he had selected Gabriel
Conroy as a simple-minded tool for this design; that Gabriel's Two and
One Half Millions was merely an exaggerated form of expressing the exact
wages--One Thousand dollars a year, which was all Dumphy had paid him
for the use of his name, and that it was the duty of every man to
endeavour to realise quickly on the advance of property before this
enormous bubble burst--this was the theory of one-half the people of One
Horse Gulch. On the other hand, there was a large party who knew exactly
the reverse. That the whole thing was purely accidental; that Mr. Peter
Dumphy being called by other business to One Horse Gulch, while walking
with Gabriel Conroy one day had picked up a singular piece of rock on
Gabriel's claim, and had said, "This looks like silver;" that Gabriel
Conroy had laughed at the suggestion, whereat Mr. Peter Dumphy, who
never laughed, had turned about curtly and demanded in his usual sharp
business way, "Will you take Seventeen Millions for all your right and
title to this claim?" That Gabriel--"you know what a blank fool Gabe
is!"--had assented, "and this way, sir, actually disposed of a property
worth, on the lowest calculation, One Hundred and Fifty Millions." This
was the generally accepted theory of the other and more imaginative
portion of One Horse Gulch.
Howbeit within the next few weeks following the advent of Mr. Dumphy,
the very soil seemed to have quickened through that sunshine, and all
over the settlement pieces of plank and scantling--thin blades of new
dwellings--started up under that beneficent presence. On the bleak hill
sides the more extensive foundations of the Conroy Smelting Works were
laid. The modest boarding-house and restaurant of Mrs. Markle was found
inadequate to the wants and inconsistent with the greatness of One Horse
Gulch, and a new hotel was erected. But here I am anticipating another
evidence of progress--namely, the daily newspaper, in which these events
were reported with a combination of ease and elegance one may envy yet
never attain. Said the _Times_:--
"The Grand Conroy House, now being inaugurated, will be managed
by Mrs. Susan Markle, whose talents as a _chef de cuisine_ are
as well known to One Horse Gulch as her rare social graces and
magnificent personal charms. She will be aided by her former
accomplished assistant, Miss Sarah Clark. As hash-slinger, Sal
can walk over anything of her weight in Plumas."
With these and other evidences of an improvement in public taste, the
old baleful title of "One Horse Gulch" was deemed incongruous. It was
proposed to change that name to "Silveropolis," there being, in the
figurative language of the Gulch, "more than one horse could draw."
Meanwhile, the nominal and responsible position of Superintendent of the
new works was filled by Gabriel, although the actual business and
executive duty was performed by a sharp, snappy young fellow of about
half Gabriel's size, supplied by the Company. This was in accordance
with the wishes of Gabriel, who could not bear idleness; and the
Company, although distrusting his administrative ability, wisely
recognised his great power over the workmen through the popularity of
his easy democratic manners, and his disposition always to lend his
valuable physical assistance in cases of emergency. Gabriel had become a
great favourite with the men ever since they found that prosperity had
not altered his simple nature. It was pleasant to them to be able to
point out to a stranger this plain, unostentatious, powerful giant,
working like themselves, and with themselves, with the added information
that he owned half the mine, and was worth Seventeen Millions! Always a
shy and rather lonely man, his wealth seemed to have driven him, by its
very oppressiveness, to the society of his humble fellows for relief. A
certain deprecatoriness of manner whenever his riches were alluded to,
strengthened the belief of some in that theory that he was merely the
creature of Dumphy's speculation.
Although Gabriel was always assigned a small and insignificant part in
the present prosperity of One Horse Gulch, it was somewhat
characteristic of the peculiar wrongheadedness of this community that
no one ever suspected his wife of any complicity in it. It had been long
since settled that her superiority to her husband was chiefly the
feminine charm of social grace and physical attraction. That, warmed by
the sunshine of affluence, this butterfly would wantonly flit from
flower to flower, and eventually quit her husband and One Horse Gulch
for some more genial clime, was never doubted. "She'll make them
millions fly ef she hez to fly with it," was the tenor of local
criticism. A pity, not unmixed with contempt, was felt for Gabriel's
apparent indifference to this prophetic outlook; his absolute
insensibility to his wife's ambiguous reputation was looked upon as the
hopelessness of a thoroughly deceived man. Even Mrs. Markle, whose
attempts to mollify Olly had been received coldly by that young
woman--even she was a convert to the theory of the complete domination
of the Conroy household by this alien and stranger.
But despite this baleful prophecy, Mrs. Conroy did not fly nor show any
inclination to leave her husband. A new house was built, with that
rapidity of production that belonged to the climate, among the pines of
Conroy's Hill, which on the hottest summer day still exuded the fresh
sap of its green timbers and exhaled a woodland spicery. Here the good
taste of Mrs. Conroy flowered in chintz, and was always fresh and
feminine in white muslin curtains and pretty carpets, and here the
fraternal love of Gabriel brought a grand piano for the use of Olly, and
a teacher. Hither also came the best citizens of the county--even the
notabilities of the State, feeling that Mr. Dumphy had, to a certain
extent, made One Horse Gulch respectable, soon found out also that Mrs.
Conroy was attractive; the Hon. Blank had dined there on the occasion of
his last visit to his constituents of the Gulch; the Hon. Judge
Beeswinger had told in her parlour several of his most effective
stories. Colonel Starbottle's manly breast had dilated over her
dish-covers, and he had carried away with him not only a vivid
appreciation of her charms capable of future eloquent expression, but an
equally vivid idea of his own fascinations, equally incapable of
concealment. Gabriel himself rarely occupied the house except for the
exigencies of food and nightly shelter. If decoyed there at other times
by specious invitations of Olly, he compromised by sitting on the back
porch in his shirt sleeves, alleging as a reason his fear of the
contaminating influence of his short black pipe.
"Don't ye mind _me_, July," he would say, when his spouse with anxious
face and deprecatory manner would waive her native fastidiousness and
aver that "she liked it." "Don't ye mind me, I admire to sit out yer.
I'm a heap more comfortable outer doors, and allus waz. I reckon the
smell might get into them curtings, and then--and then," added Gabriel,
quietly ignoring the look of pleased expostulation with which Mrs.
Conroy recognised this fancied recognition of her tastes, "and then
_Olly's friends and thet teacher_, not being round like you and me allez
and used to it, _they_ mightn't like it. And I've heerd that the smell
of nigger-head terbacker do git inter the strings of a pianner and
kinder stops the music. A pianner's a mighty cur'us thing. I've heerd
say they're as dilikit and ailin' ez a child. Look in 'em and see them
little strings a twistin' and crossin' each other like the reins of a
six mule team, and it 'tain't no wonder they gets mixed up often."
It was not Gabriel's way to notice his wife's manner very closely, but
if he had at that moment he might have fancied that there were other
instruments whose fine chords were as subject to irritation and
discordant disturbance. Perhaps only vaguely conscious of some womanish
sullenness on his wife's part, Gabriel would at such times disengage
himself as being the possible disorganising element, and lounge away.
His favourite place of resort was his former cabin, now tenantless and
in rapid decay, but which he had refused to dispose of, even after the
erection of his two later dwellings rendered it an unnecessary and
unsightly encumbrance of his lands. He loved to linger by the deserted
hearth and smoke his pipe in solitude, not from any sentiment, conscious
or unconscious, but from a force of habit, that was in this lonely man
almost as pathetic.
He may have become aware at this time that a certain growing disparity
of sentiment and taste which he had before noticed with a vague pain and
wonder, rendered his gradual separation from Olly a necessity of her
well-doing. He had indeed revealed this to her on several occasions with
that frankness which was natural to him. He had apologised with marked
politeness to her music teacher, who once invited him to observe Olly's
proficiency, by saying in general terms that he "took no stock in
chunes. I reckon it's about ez easy, Miss, if ye don't ring me in. Thet
chile's got to get on without thinkin' o' me--or my 'pinion--allowin' it
was wuth thinkin' on." Once meeting Olly walking with some older and
more fashionable school friends whom she had invited from Sacramento, he
had delicately avoided them with a sudden and undue consciousness of his
great bulk, and his slow moving intellect, painfully sensitive to what
seemed to him to be the preternatural quickness of the young people, and
turned into a by-path.
On the other hand, it is possible that with the novelty of her new
situation, and the increased importance that wealth brought to Olly, she
had become more and more oblivious of her brother's feelings, and
perhaps less persistent in her endeavours to draw him toward her. She
knew that he had attained an equal importance among his fellows from
this very wealth, and also a certain evident, palpable, superficial
respect which satisfied her. With her restless ambition and the new life
that was opening before her, his slower old-fashioned methods, his
absolute rusticity--that day by day appeared more strongly in contrast
to his surroundings--began to irritate where it had formerly only
touched her sensibilities. From this irritation she at last escaped by
the unfailing processes of youth and the fascination of newer
impressions. And so, day by day and hour by hour, they drifted slowly
apart. Until one day Mrs. Conroy was pleasantly startled by an
announcement from Gabriel, that he had completed arrangements to send
Olly to boarding-school in Sacramento. It was understood, also, that
this was only a necessary preliminary to the departure of herself and
husband for a long-promised tour of Europe.
As it was impossible for one of Gabriel's simple nature to keep his
plans entirely secret, Olly was perfectly aware of his intention, and
prepared for the formal announcement, which she knew would come in
Gabriel's quaint serious way. In the critical attitude which the child
had taken toward him, she was more or less irritated, as an older person
might have been, with the grave cautiousness with which Gabriel usually
explained that conduct and manner which was perfectly apparent and open
from the beginning. It was during a long walk in which the pair had
strayed among the evergreen woods, when they came upon the little
dismantled cabin. Here Gabriel stopped. Olly glanced around the spot and
shrugged her shoulders. Gabriel, more mindful of Olly's manner than he
had ever been of any other of her sex, instantly understood it.
"It ain't a purty place, Olly," he began, rubbing his hands, "but we've
had high ole times yer--you and me. Don't ye mind the nights I used to
kem up from the gulch and pitch in to mendin' your gownds, Olly, and you
asleep? Don't ye mind that--ar dress I copper fastened?" and Gabriel
laughed loudly, and yet a little doubtfully.
Olly laughed too, but not quite so heartily as her brother, and cast her
eyes down upon her own figure. Gabriel followed the direction of her
glance. It was not perhaps easy to re-create in the figure before him
the outré little waif who such a short time--such a long time--ago had
sat at his feet in that very cabin. It is not alone that Olly was better
dressed, and her hair more tastefully arranged, but she seemed in some
way to have become more refined and fastidious--a fastidiousness that
was plainly an out-growth of something that she possessed but _he_ did
not. As he looked at her, another vague hope that he had fostered--a
fond belief that as she grew taller she would come to look like Grace,
and so revive the missing sister in his memory--this seemed to fade away
before him. Yet it was characteristic of the unselfishness of his
nature, that he did not attribute this disappointment to her alone, but
rather to some latent principle in human nature whereof he had been
ignorant. He had even gone so far as to invite criticism on a
hypothetical case from the sagacious Johnson. "It's the difference
atween human natur and brute natur," that philosopher had answered
promptly. "A purp's the same purp allez, even arter it's a grown dorg,
but a child ain't--it's the difference atween reason and instink."
But Olly, to whom this scene recalled another circumstance, did not
participate in Gabriel's particular reminiscence.
"Don't you remember, Gabe," she said, quickly, "the first night that
sister July came here and stood right in that very door? Lord! how
flabergasted we was to be sure! And if anybody'd told me, Gabe, that
_she_ was going to marry _you_--I'd, I'd a knocked 'em down," she
blurted out, after hesitating for a suitable climax.
Gabriel, who in his turn did not seem to be particularly touched with
Olly's form of reminiscence, rose instantly above all sentiment in a
consideration of the proprieties. "Ye shouldn't talk o' knockin' people
down, Olly--it ain't decent for a young gal," he said, quickly. "Not
that I mind it," he added, with his usual apology, "but allowin' that
some of them purty little friends o' yours or teacher now, should hear
ye! Sit down for a spell, Olly. I've suthin' to tell ye."
He took her hand in his and made her sit beside him on the rude stone
that served as the old doorstep of the cabin.
"Maybe ye might remember," he went on, lightly lifting her hand in his,
and striking it gently across his knee to beget an easy confidential
manner, "maybe ye might remember that I allers allowed to do two things
ef ever I might make a strike--one was to give you a good schoolin'--the
other was to find Grace, if so be as she was above the yearth. They waz
many ways o' finding out--many ways o' settin' at it, but they warn't
_my_ ways. I allus allowed that ef thet child was in harkenin' distance
o' the reach o' my call, she'd hear me. I mout have took other men to
help me--men ez was sharp in them things, men ez was in that trade--but
I didn't. And why?"
Olly intimated by an impatient shake of her head that she didn't know.
"Because she was that shy and skary with strangers. Ye disremember how
shy she was, Olly, in them days, for ye was too young to notice. And
then, not bein' shy yourself, but sorter peart, free and promisskiss,
ready and able to keep up your end of a conversation with anybody, and
allus ez chipper as a jay-bird--why, ye don't kinder allow that fur
Gracy as I do. And thar was reasons why that purty chile should be
shy--reasons ye don't understand now, Olly, but reasons pow'ful and
strong to such a child as thet."
"Ye mean, Gabe," said the shamelessly direct Olly, "that she was
bashful, hevin' ran away with her bo."
That perplexity which wiser students of human nature than Gabriel have
experienced at the swift perception of childhood in regard to certain
things left him speechless. He could only stare hopelessly at the little
figure before him.
"Well, wot did _you_ do, Gabe? Go on!" said Olly, impatiently.
Gabriel drew a long breath.
"Thar bein' certing reasons why Gracy should be thet shy--reasons
consarning propperty o' her deceased parients," boldly invented Gabriel,
with a lofty ignoring of Olly's baser suggestion, "I reckoned that she
should get the first word from _me_ and not from a stranger. I knowed
she warn't in Californy, or she'd hev seen them handbills I issued five
years ago. What did I do? Thar is a paper wot's printed in New York,
called the _Herald_. Thar is a place in that thar paper whar they print
notisses to people that is fur, fur away. They is precious words from
fathers to their sons, from husbands to their wives, from brothers to
sisters, ez can't find each other, from"----
"From sweethearts to thar bo's," said Olly, briskly; "I know."
Gabriel paused in speechless horror.
"Yes," continued Olly. "They calls 'em 'Personals.' Lord! I know all
'bout them. Gals get bo's by them, Gabe!"
Gabriel looked up at the bright, arching vault above him. Yet it did not
darken nor split into fragments. And he hesitated. Was it worth while
to go on? Was there anything he could tell this terrible child--his own
sister--which she did not already know better than he?
"I wrote one o' them Pursonals," he went on to say, doggedly, "in this
ways." He paused, and fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, finally drew out
a well-worn newspaper slip, and straightening it with some care from its
multitudinous enfoldings, read it slowly, and with that peculiar
patronising self-consciousness which distinguishes the human animal in
the rehearsal of its literary composition.
"Ef G. C. will communicate with sufferin' and anxious friends,
she will confer a favour on ole Gabe. I will come and see her,
and Olly will rise up and welcome her. Ef G. C. is sick or
don't want to come she will write to G. C. G. C. is same as
usual, and so is Olly. All is well. Address G. C., One Horse
Gulch, Californy--till further notiss."
"Read it over again," said Olly.
Gabriel did so, readily.
"Ain't it kinder mixed up with them G. C.'s?" queried the practical
Olly.
"Not for she," responded Gabriel, quickly, "that's just what July said
when I showed her the 'Pursonal.' But I sed to her as I sez to you, it
taint no puzzle to Gracy. _She_ knows ez our letters is the same. And ef
it 'pears queer to strangers, wots the odds? Thet's the idee ov a
'pursonal.' Howsomever, it's all right, Olly. Fur," he continued,
lowering his voice confidentially, and drawing is sister closer to his
side, "_it's bin ansered_!"
"By Grace?" asked Olly.
"No," said Gabriel, in some slight confusion, "not by Grace,
exactly--that is--but yer's the anser." He drew from his bosom a small
chamois-skin purse, such as miners used for their loose gold, and
extracted the more precious slip. "Read it," he said to Olly, turning
away his head.
Olly eagerly seized and read the paper.
"G. C.--Look no more for the missing one who will never return.
Look at home. Be happy.--P. A."
Olly turned the slip over in her hands. "Is that all?" she asked, in a
higher key, with a rising indignation in her pink cheeks.
"That's all," responded Gabriel; "short and shy--that's Gracy, all
over."
"Then all I got to say is it's mean!" said Olly, bringing her brown fist
down on her knee. "And that's wot I'd say to that thar P. A.--that
Philip Ashley--if I met him."
A singular look, quite unlike the habitual placid, good-humoured
expression of the man, crossed Gabriel's face as he quietly reached out
and took the paper from Olly's hand.
"Thet's why I'm goin' off," he said, simply.
"Goin' off," repeated Olly.
"Goin' off--to the States. To New York," he responded, "July and me.
July sez--and she's a peart sort o' woman in her way, ef not o' your
kind, Olly," he interpolated, apologetically, "but pow'ful to argyfy and
plan, and she allows ez New York 'ud nat'rally be the stampin' ground o'
sich a high-toned feller ez him. And that's why I want to talk to ye,
Olly. Thar's only two things ez 'ud ever part you and me, dear, and one
on 'em ez this very thing--it's my dooty to Gracy, and the other ez my
dooty to you. Et ain't to be expected that when you oughter be gettin'
your edykation you'd be cavortin' round the world with me. And you'll
stop yer at Sacramento in a A-1 first-class school, ontil I come back.
Are ye hark'nin', dear?"
"Yes," said Olly, fixing her clear eyes on her brother.
"And ye ain't to worrit about me. And it 'ud be as well, Olly, ez you'd
forget all 'bout this yer gulch, and the folks. Fur yer to be a lady,
and in bein' thet brother Gabe don't want ennythin' to cross ye. And I
want to say to thet feller, Olly, 'Ye ain't to jedge this yer fammerly
by me, fur the men o' that fammerly gin'rally speakin' runs to size, and
ain't, so to speak, strong up yer,'" continued Gabriel, placing his
hands on his sandy curls; "'but thar's a little lady in school in
Californy ez is jest what Gracy would hev bin if she'd had the
schoolin'. And ef ye wants to converse with her she kin give you pints
enny time' And then I brings you up, and nat'rally I reckon thet you
ain't goin' back on brother Gabe--in 'stronomy, grammar, 'rithmetic and
them things."
"But wot's the use of huntin' Grace if she says she'll never return?"
said Olly, sharply.
"Ye musn't read them 'pursonals' ez ef they was square. They're kinder
conundrums, ye know--puzzles. It says G. C. will never return. Well,
s'pose G. C. has another name. Don't you see?"
"Married, maybe," said Olly, clapping her hands.
"Surely," said Gabriel, with a slight colour in his cheeks. "Thet's so."
"But s'pose it doesn't mean Grace after all?" persisted Olly.
Gabriel was for a moment staggered.
"But July sez it does," he answered, doubtfully.
Olly looked as if this evidence was not entirely satisfactory.
"But what does 'look at home' mean?" she continued.
"Thet's it," said Gabriel, eagerly. "Thet reads--'Look at little
Olly--ain't she there?' And thet's like Gracy--allus thinkin' o'
somebody else."
"Well," said Olly, "I'll stop yer, and let you go. But wot are _you_
goin' to do without me?"
Gabriel did not reply. The setting sun was so nearly level with his eyes
that it dazzled them, and he was fain to hide them among the clustering
curls of Olly, as he held the girl's head in both his hands. After a
moment he said--
"Do ye want to know why I like this old cabin and this yer chimbly,
Olly?"
"Yes," said Olly, whose eyes were also affected by the sun, and who was
glad to turn them to the object indicated.
"It ain't because you and me hez sot there many and many a day, fur
that's suthin' that we ain't goin' to think about any more. It's
because, Olly, the first lick I ever struck with a pick on this hill was
just yer. And I raised this yer chimbly with the rock. Folks thinks thet
it was over yonder in the slope whar I struck the silver lead, thet I
first druv a pick. But it warn't. And I sometimes think, Olly, that I've
had as much square comfort outer thet first lick ez I'll ever get outer
the lead yonder. But come, Olly, come! July will be wonderin' whar you
is, and ther's a stranger yonder comin' up the road, and I reckon I
ain't ez fine a lookin' bo ez a young lady ez you ez, orter to co-mand.
Never mind, Olly, he needn't know ez you and me is any relashuns. Come!"
In spite of Gabriel's precautionary haste, the stranger, who was
approaching by the only trail which led over the rocky hillside,
perceived the couple, and turned toward them interrogatively. Gabriel
was forced to stop, not, however, without first giving a slight
reassuring pressure to Olly's hand.
"Can you tell me the way to the hotel--the Grand Conroy House I think
they call it?" the traveller asked politely.
He would have been at any time an awe-inspiring and aggressive object to
One Horse Gulch and to Gabriel, and at this particular moment he was
particularly discomposing. He was elaborately dressed, buttoned and
patent-leather booted in the extreme limit of some bygone fashion, and
had the added effrontery of spotless ruffled linen. As he addressed
Gabriel he touched a tall black hat, sacred in that locality to
clergymen and gamblers. To add to Gabriel's discomfiture, at the mention
of the Grand Conroy House he had felt Olly stiffen aggressively under
his hand.
"Foller this yer trail to the foot of the hill, and ye'll strike Main
Street; that'll fetch ye thar. I'd go with ye a piece, but I'm
imployed," said Gabriel, with infinite tact and artfulness, accenting
each word with a pinch of Olly's arm, "imployed by this yer young lady's
friends to see her home, and bein' a partikler sort o' fammerly, they
makes a row when I don't come reg'lar. Axin' your parding, don't they,
Miss?" and to stop any possible retort from Olly before she could
recover from her astonishment, he had hurried her into the shadows of
the evergreen pines of Conroy Hill.
CHAPTER II.
TRANSIENT GUESTS AT THE GRAND CONROY.
The Grand Conroy Hotel was new, and had the rare virtue of comparative
cleanliness. As yet the odours of bygone dinners, and forgotten suppers,
and long dismissed breakfasts had not possessed and permeated its halls
and passages. There was no distinctive flavour of preceding guests in
its freshly clothed and papered rooms. There was a certain virgin
coyness about it, and even the active ministration of Mrs. Markle and
Sal was delicately veiled from the public by the interposition of a
bar-keeper and Irish waiter. Only to a few of the former _habitués_ did
these ladies appear with their former frankness and informality. There
was a public parlour, glittering with gilt framed mirrors and gorgeous
with red plush furniture, which usually froze the geniality of One Horse
Gulch, and repressed its larger expression, but there was a little
sitting-room beyond sacred to the widow and her lieutenant Sal, where
visitors were occasionally admitted. Among the favoured few who
penetrated this arcana was Lawyer Maxwell. He was a widower, and was
supposed to have a cynical distrust of the sex that was at once a
challenge to them and a source of danger to himself.
Mrs. Markle was of course fully aware that Mrs. Conroy had been
Maxwell's client, and that it was while on a visit to him she had met
with the accident that resulted in her meeting with Gabriel.
Unfortunately Mrs. Markle was unable to entirely satisfy herself if
there had been any previous acquaintance. Maxwell had declared to her
that to the best of his knowledge there had been none, and that the
meeting was purely accidental. He could do this without violating the
confidence of his client, and it is fair to presume that upon all other
matters he was loyally uncommunicative. That Madame Devarges had
consulted him regarding a claim to some property was the only
information he imparted. In doing this, however, he once accidentally
stumbled, and spoke of Mrs. Devarges as "Grace Conroy." Mrs. Markle
instantly looked up. "I mean Mrs. Conroy," he said hastily.
"Grace--that was his sister who was lost--wasn't it?"
"Yes," replied Maxwell, demurely, "did he ever talk much to you about
her?"
"No-o," said Mrs. Markle, with great frankness, "he and me only talked
on gin'ral topics; but from what Olly used to let on, I reckon that
sister was the only woman he ever loved."
Lawyer Maxwell, who, with an amused recollection of his extraordinary
interview with Gabriel in regard to the woman before him, was watching
her mischievously, suddenly became grave. "I guess you'll find, Mrs.
Markle, that his present wife amply fills the place of his lost sister,"
he said, more seriously than had intended.
"Never," said Mrs. Markle, quickly. "Not she--the designin', crafty
hussy!"
"I am afraid you are not doing her justice," said Maxwell, wiping away a
smile from his lips, after his characteristic habit; "but then it's not
strange that two bright, pretty women are unable to admire each other.
What reason have you to charge _her_ with being designing?" he asked
again, with a sudden return of his former seriousness.
"Why, her marryin' him," responded Mrs. Markle, frankly; "look at that
simple, shy, bashful critter, do you suppose he'd marry her--marry any
woman--that didn't throw herself at his head, eh?"
Mrs. Markle's pique was so evident that even a philosopher like Maxwell
could not content himself with referring it to the usual weakness of the
sex. No man cares to have a woman exhibit habitually her weakness for
another man, even when he possesses the power of restraining it. He
answered somewhat quickly as he raised his hand to his mouth to wipe
away the smile that, however, did not come. "But suppose that you--and
others--are mistaken in Gabriel's character. Suppose all this simplicity
and shyness is a mask. Suppose he is one of the most perfect and
successful actors on or off the stage. Suppose he should turn out to
have deceived everybody--even his present wife!"--and Lawyer Maxwell
stopped in time.
Mrs. Markle instantly fired. "Suppose fiddlesticks and flapjacks! I'd as
soon think o' suspectin' thet child," she said, pointing to the
unconscious Manty. "You lawyers are allus suspectin' what you can't
understand!" She paused as Maxwell wiped his face again. "What do you
mean anyway--why don't yer speak out? What do you know of him?"
"Oh, nothing! only it's as fair to say all this of him as of her--on
about the same evidence. For instance, here's a simple, ignorant
fellow"----
"He ain't ignorant," interrupted Mrs. Markle, sacrificing argument to
loyalty.
"Well, this grown-up child! He discovers the biggest lead in One Horse
Gulch, manages to get the shrewdest financier in California to manage it
for him, and that too after he has snatched up an heiress and a pretty
woman before the rest of 'em got a sight of her. That may be simplicity;
but my experience of guilelessness is that, ordinarily, it isn't so
lucky."
"They won't do him the least good, depend upon it," said Mrs. Markle,
with the air of triumphantly closing the argument.
It is very possible that Mrs. Markle's dislike was sustained and kept
alive by Sal's more active animosity, and the strict espionage that
young woman kept over the general movements and condition of the
Conroys. Gabriel's loneliness, his favourite haunt on the hillside, the
number and quality of Mrs. Conroy's visitors, even fragments of
conversation held in the family circle, were all known to Sal, and
redelivered to Mrs. Markle with Sal's own colouring. It is possible that
most of the gossip concerning Mrs. Conroy already hinted at, had its
origin in the views and observations of this admirable young woman, who
did not confine her confidences entirely to her mistress. And when one
day a stranger and guest, staying at the Grand Conroy House, sought to
enliven the solemnity of breakfast by social converse with Sal regarding
the Conroys, she told him nearly everything that she had already told
Mrs. Markle.
I am aware that it is alleged that some fascinating quality in this
stranger's manner and appearance worked upon the susceptible nature and
loosened the tongue of this severe virgin, but beyond a certain
disposition to minister personally to his wants, to hover around him
archly with a greater quantity of dishes than that usually offered the
transient guest, and to occasionally expatiate on the excellence of some
extra viand, there was really no ground for the report. Certainly, the
guest was no ordinary man; was quite unlike the regular _habitués_ of
the house, and perhaps to some extent justified this favouritism. He was
young, sallow-faced, with very white teeth and skin, yellow hands, and a
tropical, impulsive manner, which Miss Sarah Clark generally referred to
as "Eyetalian." I venture to transcribe something of his outward oral
expression.
"I care not greatly for the flapjack, nor yet for the dried apples,"
said Victor, whom the intelligent reader has at once recognised, "but a
single cup of coffee sweetened by those glances and offered by those
fair hands--which I kiss!--are to me enough. And you think that the
Meestrees Conroy does not live happily with her husband. Ah! you are
wise, you are wise, Mees Clark, I would not for much money find myself
under these criticism, eh?"
"Well, eyes bein' given to us to see with by the Lord's holy will, and
it ain't for weak creeturs like us to misplace our gifts or magnify
'em," said Sal, in shrill, bashful confusion, allowing an underdone
fried egg to trickle from the plate on the coat-collar of the
unconscious Judge Beeswinger, "I do say when a woman sez to her husband,
ez she's sworn to honour and obey, 'This yer's _my_ house, and this
yer's _my_ land, and yer kin git,' thar ain't much show o' happiness
thar. Ef it warn't for hearin' this with my own ears, bein' thar
accidental like, and in a sogial way, I wouldn't hev believed it. And
she allowin' to be a lady, and afeared to be civil to certain folks ez
is ez good ez she and far better, and don't find it necessary to git
married to git a position--and could hev done it a thousand times over
ef so inclined. But folks is various and self praise is open disgrace.
Let me recommend them beans. The pork, ez we allus kills ourselves fur
the benefit o' transient gests, bein' a speciality."
"It is of your kindness, Mees Clark, I am already full. And of the pork
I touch not, it is an impossibility," said Victor, showing every tooth
in his head. "It is much painful to hear of this sad, sad affair. It is
bad--and yet you say he has riches--this man. Ah! the what is the world.
See, the great manner it has treated those! No, I will not more. I am
sufficient now. Ah! eh! what have we here?"
He lowered his voice and eyes as a stranger--the antique dandy Gabriel
had met on Conroy's hill the evening before--rose from some unnoticed
seat at a side table, and unconcernedly moved away. Victor instantly
recognised the card player of San Antonio, his former chance
acquaintance of Pacific Street, and was filled with a momentary feeling
of suspicion and annoyance. But Sal's _sotto voce_ reply that the
stranger was a witness attending court seemed to be a reasonable
explanation, and the fact that the translator did not seem to recognise
him promptly relieved his mind. When he had gone Sal returned to her
confidences: "Ez to his riches, them ez knows best hez their own say o'
that. Thar was a party yer last week--gents ez was free with their
money, and not above exchanging the time o' day with working folk, and
though it ain't often ez me or Sue Markle dips into conversation with
entire strangers, yet," continued Sal with parenthetical tact and
courtesy, "Eyetalians,--furriners in a strange land bein' an
exception--and and them gents let on thet thet vein o' silver on
Conroy's hill hed been surveyed and it wazent over a foot wide, and
would be played out afore a month longer, and thet old Peter Dumphy
knowed it, and hed sold out, and thet thet's the reason Gabriel Conroy
was goin' off--jest to be out o' the way when the killapse comes."
"Gabriel! going away, Mees Sal? this is not possible!" ejaculated the
fascinating guest, breathing very hard, and turning all his teeth in a
single broadside upon the susceptible handmaid. At any other moment, it
is possible that Sal might have been suspicious of the stranger's
excitement, but the fascination of his teeth held and possessed this
fluttering virgin.
"Ef thar ever waz a man ez had an angelic smile," she intimated
afterwards in confidence to Mrs. Markle, "it waz thet young Eyetalian."
She handed him several dishes, some of them empty, in her embarrassment
and rejoined with an affectation of arch indignation, "Thank ye fur
sayin' 'I lie,'--and it's my pay fur bein' a gossip and ez good ez I
send--but thar's Olympy Conroy packed away to school fur six months, and
thar's the new superintendent ez is come up to take Gabriel's situation,
and he a sittin' in a grey coat next to ye a minit ago! Eh? And ye won't
take nothin' more? Appil or cranbear' pie?--our own make? I'm afeerd ye
ain't made out a dinner!" But Victor had already risen hurriedly and
departed, leaving Sal in tormenting doubt whether she had not in her
coquettish indignation irritated the tropical nature of this sensitive
Italian. "I orter allowed fur his bein' a furriner and not bin so free.
Pore young man! I thought he did luk tuk back when I jest allowed that
he said I lied." And with a fixed intention of indicating her
forgiveness and goodwill the next morning by an extra dish, Sal retired
somewhat dejectedly to the pantry. She made a point, somewhat later, of
dusting the hall in the vicinity of Victor's room, but was possibly
disappointed to find the door open, and the tenant absent. Still later,
she imparted some of this interview to Mrs. Markle with a certain air of
fatigued politeness and a suggestion that, in the interest of the house
solely, she had not repressed perhaps as far as maidenly pride and
strict propriety demanded, the somewhat extravagant advances of the
stranger. "I'm sure," she added, briskly, "why he kept a lookin' and a
talkin' at me in that way, mind can't consave, and transients did
notiss. And if he did go off mad, why, he kin git over it." Having thus
delicately conveyed the impression of an ardent Southern nature checked
in its exuberance, she became mysteriously reticent and gloomy.
It is probable that Miss Clark's theory of Gabriel's departure was not
original with her, or entirely limited to her own experience. A very
decided disapprobation of Gabriel's intended trip was prevalent in the
gulches and bar-room. He quickly lost his late and hard-earned
popularity; not a few questioned his moral right to leave One Horse
Gulch until its property was put beyond a financial doubt in the future.
The men who had hitherto ignored the proposition that he was in any way
responsible for the late improvement in business, now openly condemned
him for abandoning the position they declared he never had. The
_Silveropolis Messenger_ talked vaguely of the danger of "changing
superintendents" at such a moment, and hinted that the stock of the
company would suffer. The rival paper--for it was found that the
interests of the town required a separate and distinct expression--had
an editorial on "absenteeism," and spoke, crushingly, of those men who,
having enriched themselves out of the resources of One Horse Gulch, were
now seeking to dissipate that wealth in the excesses of foreign travel.
Meanwhile, the humble object of this criticism, oblivious in his
humility of any public interest in his movements or intentions, busied
himself in preparations for his departure. He had refused the offer of a
large rent for his house from the new superintendent, but had retained a
trusty servant to keep it with a view to the possible return of Grace.
"Ef thar mout ever come a young gal yet lookin' fur me," he said
privately to his servant, "yer not to ax any questions, partiklaly ef
she looks sorter shy and bashful, but ye'll gin her the best room in the
house, and send to me by igspress, and ye needn't say anythin' to Mrs.
Conroy about it." Observing the expression of virtuous alarm on the face
of the domestic--she was a married woman of some comeliness who was not
living with her husband on account of his absurdly jealous
disposition--he added hastily, "She's a young woman o' proputty ez hez
troubil about it, and wishes to be kep' secret," and, having in this way
thoroughly convinced his handmaid of the vileness of his motives and the
existence of a dark secret in the Conroy household, he said no more, but
paid a flying visit to Olly, secretly, packed away all the remnants of
his deceased mother's wardrobe, cut (God knows for what purpose) small
patches from the few old dresses that Grace had worn that were still
sacredly kept in his wardrobe, and put them in his pocket-book; wandered
in his usual lonely way on the hillside, and spent solitary hours in his
deserted cabin; avoided the sharp advances of Mrs. Markle, who once
aggressively met him in his long post-prandial walks, as well as the shy
propinquity of his wife, who would fain have delayed him in her bower,
and so having after the fashion of his sex made the two women who loved
him exceedingly uncomfortable, he looked hopefully forward to the time
when he should be happy without either.
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH MR. DUMPHY TAKES A HOLIDAY.
It was a hot day on the California coast. In the memory of the oldest
American inhabitant its like had not been experienced, and although the
testimony of the Spanish Californian was deemed untrustworthy where the
interests of the American people were concerned, the statement that for
sixty years there had been no such weather was accepted without
question. The additional fact, vouchsafed by Don Pedro Peralta, that the
great earthquake which shook down the walls of the Mission of San Juan
Bautista had been preceded by a week of such abnormal meteorology, was
promptly suppressed as being of a quality calculated to check
immigration. Howbeit it was hot. The usual afternoon trade-winds had
pretermitted their rapid, panting breath, and the whole coast lay, as it
were, in the hush of death. The evening fogs that always had lapped the
wind-abraded surfaces of the bleak seaward hills were gone too; the vast
Pacific lay still and glassy, glittering, but intolerable. The outlying
sand dunes, unmitigated by any breath of air, blistered the feet and
faces of chance pedestrians. For once the broad verandahs, piazzas, and
balconies of San Francisco cottage architecture were consistent and
serviceable. People lingered upon them in shirt-sleeves, with all the
exaggeration of a novel experience. French windows, that had always been
barred against the fierce afternoon winds, were suddenly thrown open;
that brisk, energetic step, with which the average San Franciscan
hurried to business or pleasure, was changed to an idle, purposeless
lounge. The saloons were crowded with thirsty multitudes, the quays and
wharves with a people who had never before appreciated the tonic of salt
air; the avenues leading over the burning sand-hills to the ocean all
day were thronged with vehicles. The numerous streets and by-ways,
abandoned by their great scavenger, the wind, were foul and
ill-smelling. For twenty-four hours business was partly forgotten; as
the heat continued and the wind withheld its customary tribute, there
were some changes in the opinions and beliefs of the people; doubts were
even expressed of the efficacy of the climate; a few heresies were
uttered regarding business and social creeds, and Mr. Dumphy and certain
other financial magnates felt vaguely that if the thermometer continued
to advance the rates of interest must fall correspondingly.
Equal to even this emergency, Mr. Dumphy had sat in his office all the
morning, resisting with the full strength of his aggressive nature any
disposition on the part of his his customers to succumb financially to
the unusual weather. Mr. Dumphy's shirt-collar was off; with it seemed
to have departed some of his respectability, and he was perhaps, on the
whole, a trifle less imposing than he had been. Nevertheless, he was
still dominant, in the suggestion of his short bull neck, and two
visitors who entered, observing the _déshabillé_ of this great man, felt
that it was the proper thing for them to instantly unbutton their own
waistcoats and loosen their cravats.
"It's hot," said Mr. Pilcher, an eminent contractor.
"You bet!" responded Mr. Dumphy. "Must be awful on the Atlantic coast!
People dying by hundreds of sun-stroke; that's the style out there. Here
there's nothing of the kind! A man stands things here that he couldn't
there."
Having thus re-established the supremacy of the California climate, Mr.
Dumphy came directly to business. "Bad news from One Horse Gulch!" he
said, quickly.
As that was the subject his visitors came to speak about--a fact of
which Mr. Dumphy was fully aware--he added, sharply, "What do you
propose?"
Mr. Pilcher, who was a large stockholder in the Conroy mine, responded,
hesitatingly, "We've heard that the lead opens badly."
"D----n bad!" interrupted Dumphy. "What do you propose?"
"I suppose," continued Mr. Pilcher, "the only thing to do is to get out
of it before the news becomes known."
"No!" said Dumphy, promptly. The two men stared at each other. "No!" he
continued, with a quick, short laugh, which was more like a logical
expression than a mirthful emotion. "No, we must hold on, sir! Look yer!
there's a dozen men as you and me know, that we could unload to
to-morrow. Suppose we did? Well, what happens? They go in on four
hundred thousand--that's about the figures we represent. Well. They
begin to examine and look around; them men, Pilcher"--(in Mr. Dumphy's
more inspired moods he rose above considerations of the English
grammar)--"them men want to know what that four hundred thousand's
invested in; they ain't goin' to take our word after we've got their
money--that's human nature--and in twenty-four hours they find they're
sold! That don't look well for me nor you--does it?"
There was not the least assumption of superior honour or
integrity--indeed, scarcely any self-consciousness or sentiment of any
kind, implied in this speech--yet it instantly affected both of these
sharp business men, who might have been suspicious of sentiment, with an
impression of being both honourable and manly. Mr. Pilcher's companion,
Mr. Wyck, added a slight embarrassment to his reception of these great
truths, which Mr. Dumphy noticed.
"No," he went on; "what we must do is this. Increase the capital stock
just as much again. That will enable us to keep everything in our
hands--news and all--and if it should leak out afterwards, we have half
a dozen others with us to keep the secret. Six months hence will be time
to talk of selling; just now buying is the thing! You don't believe
it?--eh? Well, Wyck, I'll take yours at the figure you paid. What do you
say?--quick!"
Mr. Wyck, more confused than appeared necessary, declared his intention
of holding on; Mr. Pilcher laughed, Mr. Dumphy barked behind his hand.
"That offer's open for ninety days--will you take it? No! Well, then,
that's all!" and Mr. Dumphy turned again to his desk. Mr. Pilcher took
the hint, and drew Mr. Wyck away.
"Devilish smart chap, that Dumphy!" said Pilcher, as they passed out of
the door.
"An honest man, by----!" responded Wyck.
When they had gone Mr. Dumphy rang his bell. "Ask Mr. Jaynes to come and
see me at once. D----n it, go now! You must get there before Wyck does.
Run!"
The clerk disappeared. In a few moments Mr. Jaynes, a sharp but very
youthful looking broker, entered the office parlour. "Mr. Wyck will want
to buy back that stock he put in your hands this morning, Jaynes. I
thought I'd tell you, it's worth 50 advance now!"
The precocious youth grinned intelligently and departed. By noon of that
day it was whispered that notwithstanding the rumours of unfavourable
news from the Conroy mine, one of the heaviest stockholders had actually
bought back, at an advance of $50 per share, some stock he had
previously sold. More than that, it was believed that Mr. Dumphy had
taken advantage of these reports, and was secretly buying. In spite of
the weather, for some few hours there had been the greatest excitement.
Possibly from some complacency arising from this, possibly from some
singular relaxing in the atmosphere, Mr. Dumphy at two o'clock shook off
the cares of business and abandoned himself to recreation--refusing even
to take cognisance of the card of one Colonel Starbottle, which was sent
to him with a request for an audience. At half-past two he was behind a
pair of fast horses, one of a carriage-load of ladies and gentlemen,
rolling over the scorching sand-hills towards the Pacific, that lay calm
and cool beyond. As the well-appointed equipage rattled up the Bush
Street Hill, many an eye was turned with envy and admiration toward it.
The spectacle of two pretty women among the passengers was perhaps one
reason; the fact that everybody recognised in the showy and brilliant
driver the celebrated Mr. Rollingstone, an able financier and rival of
Mr. Dumphy's, was perhaps equally potent. For Mr. Rollingstone was noted
for his "turnout," as well as for a certain impulsive South Sea
extravagance and picturesque hospitality which Dumphy envied and at
times badly imitated. Indeed, the present excursion was one of Mr.
Rollingstone's famous _fetes champetres_, and the present company was
composed of the _élite_ of San Francisco, and made self-complacent and
appreciative by an enthusiastic Eastern tourist.
Their way lay over shifting sand dunes, now motionless and glittering in
the cruel, white glare of a California sky, only relieved here and there
by glimpses of the blue bay beyond, and odd marine-looking buildings,
like shells scattered along the beach, as if they had been cast up and
forgotten by some heavy tide. Farther on, their road skirted the base of
a huge solitary hill, broken in outline by an outcrop of gravestones,
sacred to the memory of worthy pioneers who had sealed their devotion to
the "healthiest climate in the world" with their lives. Occasionally
these gravestones continued to the foot of the hill, where, struggling
with the drifting sand, they suggested a half-exhumed Pompeii to the
passing traveller. They were the skeletons at the feast of every San
Francisco pleasure-seeker, the _memento mori_ of every picnicing party,
and were visible even from the broad verandahs of the suburban
pavilions, where the gay and thoughtless citizen ate, drank, and was
merry. Part of the way the busy avenue was parallel with another, up
which, even at such times, occasionally crept the lugubrious procession
of hearse and mourning coach to other pavilions, scarcely less crowded,
where there were "funeral baked meats," and sorrow and tears. And beyond
this again was the grey eternal sea, and at its edge, perched upon a
rock, and rising out of the very jaws of the gushing breakers, a stately
pleasure dome, decreed by some speculative and enterprising San
Francisco landlord--the excuse and terminus of this popular excursion.
Here Rollingstone drew up, and, alighting, led his party into a bright,
cheery room, whose windows gave upon the sea. A few other guests,
evidently awaiting them, were mitigating their impatience by watching
the uncouth gambols of the huge sea-lions, who, on the rocks beyond,
offered a contrast to the engaging and comfortable interior that was at
once pleasant and exciting. In the centre of the room a table overloaded
with overgrown fruits and grossly large roses somewhat ostentatiously
proclaimed the coming feast!
"Here we are!" said Mr. Dumphy, bustling into the room with that brisk,
business-like manner which his friends fondly believed was frank
cheerfulness, "and on time, too!" he added, drawing out his watch.
"Inside of thirty minutes--how's that, eh?" He clapped his nearest
neighbour on the back, who, pleased with this familiarity from a man
worth five or six millions, did not stop to consider the value of this
celerity of motion in a pleasure excursion on a hot day.
"Well!" said Rollingstone, looking around him, "you all know each other,
I reckon, or will soon. Mr. Dumphy, Mr. Poinsett, Mr. Pilcher, Mr. Dyce,
Mr. Wyck, Mrs. Sepulvida and Miss Rosey Ringround, gentlemen; Mr. and
Mrs. Raynor, of Boston. There, now, that's through! Dinner's ready. Sit
down anywhere and wade in. No formality, gentlemen--this is California."
There was, perhaps, some advantage in this absence of ceremony. The
guests almost involuntarily seated themselves according to their
preferences, and Arthur Poinsett found himself beside Mrs. Sepulvida,
while Mr. Dumphy placed Miss Ringround--a pretty though boyish-looking
blonde, slangy in speech and fashionable in attire--on his right hand.
The dinner was lavish and luxurious, lacking nothing but restraint and
delicacy. There was game in profusion, fat but flavourless. The fruits
were characteristic. The enormous peaches were blowsy in colour and
robust in fibre; the pears were prodigious and dropsical, and looked as
if they wanted to be tapped; the strawberries were overgrown and yet
immature--rather as if they had been arrested on their way to become
pine-apples; with the exception of the grapes, which were delicate in
colour and texture, the fruit might have been an ironical honouring by
nature of Mr. Dumphy's lavish drafts.
It is probable, however, that the irony was lost on the majority of the
company, who were inclined to echo the extravagant praise of Mr. Raynor,
the tourist. "Wonderful! wonderful!" said that gentleman; "if I had not
seen this I wouldn't have believed it. Why, that pear would make four of
ours."
"That's the way we do things here," returned Dumphy, with the suggestion
of being personally responsible for these abnormal growths. He stopped
suddenly, for he caught Arthur Poinsett's eye. Mr. Dumphy ate little in
public, but he was at that moment tearing the wing of a grouse with his
teeth, and there was something so peculiar and characteristic in the
manner that Arthur looked up with a sudden recollection in his glance.
Dumphy put down the wing, and Poinsett resume his conversation with Mrs.
Sepulvida. It was not of a quality that interruption seriously impaired;
Mrs. Sepulvida was a charming but not an intellectual woman, and Mr.
Poinsett took up the lost thread of his discourse quite as readily from
her eyes as her tongue.
"To have been consistent, Nature should have left a race of giants
here," said Mr. Poinsett, meditatively. "I believe," he added, more
pointedly, and in a lower voice, "the late Don José was not a large
man."
"Whatever he was, he thought a great deal of me!" pouted Mrs. Sepulvida.
Mr. Poinsett was hastening to say that if "taking thought" like that
could add a "cubit to one's stature," he himself was in a fair way to
become a son of Anak, when he was interrupted by Miss Rosey--
"What's all that about big men? There are none here. They're like the
big trees. They don't hang around the coast much! You must go to the
mountains for your Goliahs."
Emboldened quite as much by the evident annoyance of her neighbour as
the amused look of Arthur Poinsett, she went on--
"I have seen the pre-historic man!--the original athletic sharp! He is
seven feet high, is as heavy as a sea-lion, and has shoulders like Tom
Hyer. He slings an awful left. He's got blue eyes as tender as a seal's.
He has hair like Samson before that woman went back on him. He's as
brave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb. He blushes like a girl, or as
girls used to; I wish I could start up such a colour on even double the
provocation!"
Of course everybody laughed--it was the usual tribute of Miss Rosey's
speech--the gentlemen frankly and fairly, the ladies perhaps a little
doubtfully and fearfully. Mrs. Sepulvida, following the amused eyes of
Arthur, asked Miss Rosey patronisingly where she had seen her
phenomenon.
"Oh, it's no use, my dear, positively--no use. He's married. These
phenomena always get married. No, I didn't see him in a circus, Mr.
Dumphy, nor in a menagerie, Mr. Dyce, but in a girl's school!"
Everybody stared; a few laughed as if this were an amusing introduction
to some possible joke from Miss Rosey.
"I was visiting an old schoolmate at Madame Eclair's _Pension_ at
Sacramento; he was taking his little sister to the same school," she
went on, coolly, "so he told me. I love my love with a G, for he is
Guileless and Gentle. His name is Gabriel, and he lives in a Gulch."
"Our friend the superintendent--I'm blessed," said Dyce, looking at
Dumphy.
"Yes; but not so very guileless," said Pilcher, "eh, Dyce?"
The gentlemen laughed; the ladies looked at each other and then at Miss
Ringround. That fearless young woman was equal to the occasion.
"What have you got against my giant? Out with it!"
"Oh, nothing," said Mr. Pilcher; "only your guileless, simple friend has
played the sharpest game on record in Montgomery Street."
"Go on!" said Miss Rosey.
"Shall I?" asked Pilcher of Dumphy.
Dumphy laughed his short laugh. "Go on."
Thus supported, Mr. Pilcher assumed the ease of a graceful _raconteur_.
"Miss Rosey's guileless friend, ladies and gentlemen, is the
superintendent and shareholder in a certain valuable silver mine in
which Dumphy is largely represented. Being about to leave the country,
and anxious to realise on his stock, he contracted for the sale of a
hundred shares at $1000 each, with our friend Mr. Dyce, the stocks to be
delivered on a certain date--ten days ago. Instead of the stock, that
day comes a letter from Conroy--a wonderful piece of art--simple,
ill-spelled, and unbusiness-like, saying, that in consequence of recent
disappointment in the character and extent of the lead, he shall not
hold Dyce to his contract, but will release him. Dyce, who has already
sold that identical stock at a pretty profit, rushes off to Dumphy's
broker, and finds two hundred shares held at $1200. Dyce smells a
large-sized rat, writes that he shall hold Gabriel to the performance of
his contract, makes him hand over the stock, delivers it in time, and
then loads up again with the broker's 200 at $1200 _for a rise_. That
rise don't come--won't come--for that sale was _Gabriel's too_--as
Dumphy can tell you. There's guilelessness! There's simplicity! And it
cleared a hundred thousand by the operation."
Of the party none laughed more heartily than Arthur Poinsett. Without
analysing his feelings he was conscious of being greatly relieved by
this positive evidence of Gabriel's shrewdness. And when Mrs. Sepulvida
touched his elbow, and asked if this were not the squatter who held the
forged grant, Arthur, without being conscious of any special meanness,
could not help replying with unnecessary significance that it was.
"I believe the whole dreadful story that Donna Dolores told me," said
she, "how he married the woman who personated his sister, and all
that--the deceitful wretch."
"I've got that letter here," continued Mr. Pilcher, drawing from his
pocket a folded piece of letter paper. "It's a curiosity. If you'd like
to see the documentary evidence of your friend's guilelessness, here it
is," he added, turning to Miss Ringround.
Miss Rosey took the paper defiantly, and unfolded it, as the others
gathered round her, Mr. Dumphy availing himself of that opportunity to
lean familiarly over the arm of her chair. The letter was written with
that timid, uncertain ink, peculiar to the illiterate effort, and
suggestive of an occasional sucking of the pen in intervals of
abstraction or difficult composition. Saving that characteristic, it is
reproduced literally below:--
"1, Hoss Gulch, Argus the 10th.
"DEAR SIR,--On acount of thar heving ben bad Luck in the Leed
witch has droped, I rite thes few lins hopping you air Well. I
have to say we are disapinted in the Leed, it is not wut we
thought it was witch is wy I rite thes few lins. now sir
purheps you ixpict me to go on with our contrak, and furniss
you with 100 shars at 1 Thousin dolls pur shar. It issint wuth
no 1 Thousin dols pur shar, far frummit. No sir, it issint,
witch is wy I rite you thes few lins, and it Woddent be Rite
nor squar for me to tak it. This is to let you off Mister Dyce,
and hopin it ant no trubbil to ye, fur I shuddint sell atal
things lookin this bad it not bein rite nor squar, and hevin'
tor up the contrak atween you and me. So no more at pressen
from yours respectfuly. G. CONROY.
"P.S.--You might mind my sayin to you about my sister witch is
loss sens 1849. If you happind to com acrost any Traks of hers,
me bein' away, you can send the sam to me in Care of Wels Farko
& Co., New York Citty, witch is a grate favor and will be pade
sure. G. C."
"I don't care what you say, that's an honest letter," said Miss Rosey,
with a certain decision of character new to the experience of her
friends, "as honest and simple as ever was written. You can bet your
pile on that."
No one spoke, but the smile of patronising superiority and chivalrous
toleration was exchanged by all the gentlemen except Poinsett. Mr.
Dumphy added to his smile his short characteristic bark. At the
reference to the writer's sister, Mrs. Sepulvida shrugged her pretty
shoulders and looked doubtingly at Poinsett. But to her great
astonishment that gentleman reached across the table, took the letter,
and having glanced over it, said positively, "You are right, Miss Rosey,
it is genuine."
It was characteristic of Poinsett's inconsistency that this statement
was as sincere as his previous assent to the popular suspicion. When he
took the letter in his hand, he at once detected the evident sincerity
of its writer, and as quickly recognised the quaint honesty and simple
nature of the man he had known. It was Gabriel Conroy, all over. More
than that, he even recalled an odd memory of Grace in this frank
directness and utter unselfishness of the brother who so plainly had
never forgotten her. That all this might be even reconcilable with the
fact of his marriage to the woman who had personated the sister, Arthur
easily comprehended. But that it was his own duty, after he had impugned
Gabriel's character, to make any personal effort to clear it, was not so
plain. Nevertheless, he did not answer Mrs. Sepulvida's look, but walked
gravely to the window, and looked out upon the sea, Mr. Dumphy, who,
with the instincts of jealousy, saw in Poinsett's remark only a desire
to ingratiate himself with Miss Rosey, was quick to follow his lead.
"It's a clear case of _quien sabe_ anyway," he said to the young lady,
"and maybe you're right. Joe, pass the champagne."
Dyce and Pilcher looked up inquiringly at their leader, who glanced
meaningly towards the open-mouthed Mr. Raynor, whose astonishment at
this sudden change in public sentiment was unbounded.
"But look here," said that gentleman, "bless my soul! if this letter is
genuine, your friends here--these gentlemen--have lost a hundred
thousand dollars! Don't you see? If this news is true, and this man's
information is correct, the stock really isn't worth"----
He was interrupted by a laugh from Messrs. Dyce and Pilcher.
"That's so. It would be a devilish good thing on Dyce!" said the latter,
good-humouredly. "And as I'm in myself about as much again, I reckon I
should take the joke about as well as he."
"But," continued the mystified Mr. Raynor, "do you really mean to say
that you have any idea this news is true?"
"Yes," responded Pilcher, coolly.
"Yes," echoed Dyce, with equal serenity.
"You do?"
"We do."
The astonished tourist looked from the one to the other with undisguised
wonder and admiration, and then turned to his wife. Had she heard it?
Did she fully comprehend that here were men accepting and considering an
actual and present loss of nearly a quarter of a million of dollars, as
quietly and indifferently as if it were a postage stamp! What superb
coolness! What magnificent indifference! What supreme and royal
confidence in their own resources. Was this not a country of gods? All
of which was delivered in a voice that, although pitched to the key of
matrimonial confidence, was still entirely audible to the gods
themselves.
"Yes, gentlemen," continued Pilcher; "it's the fortune of war. T'other
man's turn to-day, ours to-morrow. Can't afford time to be sorry in this
climate. A man's born again here every day. Move along and pass the
bottle."
What was that?
Nothing, apparently, but a rattling of windows and shaking of the
glasses--the effect of a passing carriage or children running on the
piazza without. But why had they all risen with a common instinct, and
with faces bloodless and eyes fixed in horrible expectancy? These were
the questions which Mr. and Mrs. Raynor asked themselves hurriedly,
unconscious of danger, yet with a vague sense of alarm at the terror so
plainly marked upon the countenances of these strange, self-poised
people, who, a moment before, had seemed the incarnation of reckless
self-confidence, and inaccessible to the ordinary annoyances of mortals.
And why were these other pleasure-seekers rushing by the windows, and
was not that a lady fainting in the hall? Arthur was the first to speak
and tacitly answer the unasked question.
"It was from east to west," he said, with a coolness that he felt was
affected, and a smile that he knew was not mirthful. "It's over now, I
think." He turned to Mrs. Sepulvida, who was very white. "You are not
frightened? Surely this is nothing new to you? Let me help you to a
glass of wine."
Mrs. Sepulvida took it with a hysterical little laugh. Mrs. Raynor, who
was now conscious of a slight feeling of nausea, did not object to the
same courtesy from Mr. Pilcher, whose hand shook visibly as he lifted
the champagne. Mr. Dumphy returned from the doorway, in which, to his
own and everybody's surprise, he was found standing, and took his place
at Miss Rosey's side. The young woman was first to recover her reckless
hilarity.
"It was a judgment on you for slandering Nature's noblest specimen," she
said, shaking her finger at the capitalist.
Mr. Rollingstone, who had returned to the head of his table, laughed.
"But _what_ was it?" gasped Mr. Raynor, making himself at last heard
above the somewhat pronounced gaiety of the party.
"An earthquake," said Arthur, quietly.
CHAPTER IV.
MR. DUMPHY HAS NEWS OF A DOMESTIC CHARACTER.
"An earthquake!" echoed Mr. Rollingstone, cheerfully, to his guests;
"now you've had about everything we have to show. Don't be alarmed,
madam," he continued to Mrs. Raynor, who was beginning to show symptoms
of hysteria, "nobody ever was hurt by 'em."
"In two hundred years there hasn't been as many persons killed by
earthquakes in California as are struck by lightning on your coast in a
single summer," said Mr. Dumphy.
"Never have 'em any stronger than this," said Mr. Pilcher, with a
comforting suggestion on there being an absolute limitation of Nature's
freaks on the Pacific coast.
"Over in a minute, as you see," said Mr. Dumphy, "and--hello! what's
that?"
In a moment they were on their feet, pale and breathless again. This
time Mr. Raynor and his wife among the number. But it was only a
carriage--driving away.
"Let us adjourn to the piazza," said Mr. Dumphy, offering his arm to
Mrs. Raynor with the air of having risen solely for that purpose.
Mr. Dumphy led the way, and the party followed with some celerity. Mrs.
Sepulvida hung back a moment with Arthur, and whispered--
"Take me back as soon as you can!"
"You are not seriously alarmed?" asked Arthur.
"We are too near the sea here," she replied, looking toward the ocean
with a slight shudder. "Don't ask questions now," she added, a little
sharply. "Don't you see these Eastern people are frightened to death,
and they may overhear."
But Mrs. Sepulvida had not long to wait, for in spite of the pointed
asseverations of Messrs. Pilcher, Dyce, and Dumphy, that earthquakes
were not only harmless, but absolutely possessed a sanitary quality, the
piazzas were found deserted by the usual pleasure-seekers, and even the
eloquent advocates themselves betrayed some impatience to be once more
on the open road.
A brisk drive of an hour put the party again in the highest spirits, and
Mr. and Mrs. Raynor again into the condition of chronic admiration and
enthusiasm.
Mrs. Sepulvida and Mr. Poinsett followed in an open buggy behind. When
they were fairly upon their way, Arthur asked an explanation of his fair
companion's fear of the sea.
"There is an old story," said Donna Maria, "that the Point of Pines--you
know where it is, Mr. Poinsett--was once covered by a great wave from
the sea that followed an earthquake. But tell me, do you really think
that letter of this man Conroy is true?"
"I do," said Arthur, promptly.
"And that--there--is--a--prospect--that--the--stock of this big mine
may--de--pre--ciate in value?"
"Well--possibly--yes!"
"And if you knew that I had been foolish enough to put a good deal of
money in it, you would still talk to me as you did the other day--down
there?"
"I should say," responded Arthur, changing the reins to his left hand
that his right might be free for some purpose--goodness knows what!--"I
should say that I am more than ever convinced that you ought to have
some person to look after you."
What followed this remarkable speech I really do not know how to
reconcile with the statement that Mrs. Sepulvida made to the Donna
Dolores a few chapters ago, and I therefore discreetly refrain from
transcribing it here. Suffice it to say that the buggy did not come up
with the _char-à-banc_ and the rest of the party until long after they
had arrived at Mr. Dumphy's stately mansion on Rincon Hill, where
another costly and elaborate collation was prepared. Mr. Dumphy
evidently was in spirits, and had so far overcome his usual awe and
distrust of Arthur, as well as the slight jealousy he had experienced an
hour or so before, as to approach that gentleman with a degree of
cheerful familiarity that astonished and amused the self-sustained
Arthur--who perhaps at that time had more reason for his usual conceit
than before. Arthur, who knew, or thought he knew, that Miss Ringround
was only coquetting with Mr. Dumphy for the laudable purpose of making
the more ambitious of her sex miserable, and that she did not care for
his person or position, was a good deal amused at finding the young lady
the subject of Mr. Dumphy's sudden confidences.
"You see, Poinsett, as a man of business I don't go as much into society
as you do, but she seems to be a straight up and down girl, eh?" he
queried, as they stood together in the vestibule after the ladies had
departed. It is hardly necessary to say that Arthur was positive and
sincere in his praise of the young woman. Mr. Dumphy by some obscure
mental process, taking much of the praise to himself, was highly elated
and perhaps tempted to a greater vinous indulgence than was his habit.
Howbeit the last bottle of champagne seemed to have obliterated all past
suspicion of Arthur, and he shook him warmly by the hand. "I tell ye
what now, Poinsett, if there are any points I can give you don't you be
afraid to ask for 'em. I can see what's up between you and the
widow--honour, you know--all right, my boy--she's in the Conroy lode
pretty deep, but I'll help her out and you too! You've got a good thing
there--Poinsett--and I want you to realise. We understand each other,
eh? You'll find me a square man with my friends, Poinsett. Pitch
in--pitch in!--my advice to you is to just pitch in and marry the widow.
She's worth it--you can realise on her. You see you and me's--so to
speak--ole pards, eh? You rek'leck ole times on Sweetwater, eh? Well--if
you mus' go, goo'-bi! I s'pose she's waitin' for ye. Look you, Poinsy,
d'ye see this yer posy in my buttonhole? She give it to me. Rosey did!
eh? ha! ha! Won't tak' nothin' drink? Lesh open n'or bo'll. No? Goori!"
until struggling between disgust, amusement, and self-depreciation,
Arthur absolutely tore himself away from the great financier and his
degrading confidences.
When Mr. Dumphy staggered back into his drawing-room, a servant met him
with a card.
"The gen'lman says it's very important business, and he must see you
to-night," he said, hastily, anticipating the oath and indignant protest
of his master. "He says it's your business, sir, and not his. He's been
waiting here since you came back, sir."
Mr. Dumphy took the card. It bore the inscription in pencil, "Colonel
Starbottle, Siskiyou, on important business." Mr. Dumphy reflected a
moment. The magical word "business" brought him to himself. "Show him
in--in the office," he said savagely, and retired thither.
Anybody less practical than Peter Dumphy would have dignified the large,
showy room in which he entered as the library. The rich mahogany shelves
were filled with a heterogeneous collection of recent books, very
fresh, very new and glaring as to binding and subject; the walls were
hung with files of newspapers and stock reports. There was a
velvet-lined cabinet containing minerals--all of them gold or silver
bearing. There was a map of an island that Mr. Dumphy owned--there was a
marine view, with a representation of a steamship also owned by Mr.
Dumphy. There was a momentary relief from these facts in a very gorgeous
and badly painted picture of a tropical forest and sea-beach, until
inquiry revealed the circumstance that the sugar-house in the corner
under a palm-tree was "run" by Mr. Dumphy, and that the whole thing
could be had for a bargain.
The stranger who entered was large and somewhat inclined to a corpulency
that was, however, restrained in expansion by a blue frock coat, tightly
buttoned at the waist, which had the apparent effect of lifting his
stomach into the higher thoracic regions of moral emotion--a confusion
to which its owner lent a certain intellectual assistance. The Colonel's
collar was very large, open and impressive; his black silk neckerchief
loosely tied around his throat, occupying considerable space over his
shirt front, and expanding through the upper part of a gilt-buttoned
white waistcoat, lent itself to the general suggestion that the Colonel
had burst his sepals and would flower soon. Above this unfolding the
Colonel's face, purple, aquiline-nosed, throttle-looking as to the eye,
and moist and sloppy-looking as to the mouth, up-tilted above his
shoulders. The Colonel entered with that tiptoeing celerity of step
affected by men who are conscious of increasing corpulency. He carried a
cane hooked over his forearm; in one hand a large white handkerchief,
and in the other a broad-brimmed hat. He thrust the former gracefully in
his breast, laid the latter on the desk where Mr. Dumphy was seated, and
taking an unoffered chair himself, coolly rested his elbow on his cane
in an attitude of easy expectancy.
"Say you've got important business?" said Dumphy. "Hope it is, sir--hope
it is! Then out with it. Can't afford to waste time any more here than
at the Bank. Come! What is it?"
Not in the least affected by Mr. Dumphy's manner, whose habitual
brusqueness was intensified to rudeness, Colonel Starbottle drew out his
handkerchief, blew his nose, carefully returned apparently only about
two inches of the cambric to his breast, leaving the rest displayed like
a ruffled shirt, and began with an airy gesture of his fat white hand.
"I was here two hours ago, sir, when you were at the--er--festive board.
I said to the boy, 'Don't interrupt your master. A gentleman worshipping
at the shrine of Venus and Bacchus and attended by the muses and
immortals, don't want to be interrupted.' Ged, sir, I knew a man in
Louisiana--Hank Pinckney--shot his boy--a little yellow boy worth a
thousand dollars--for interrupting him at a poker party--and no ladies
present! And the boy only coming in to say that the gin house was in
flames. Perhaps you'll say an extreme case. Know a dozen such. So I
said, 'Don't interrupt him, but when the ladies have risen, and Beauty,
sir, no longer dazzles and--er--gleams, and the table round no longer
echoes the--er--light jest, then spot him! And over the deserted board,
with--er--social glass between us, your master and I will have our
little confab.'"
He rose, and before the astonished Dumphy could interfere, crossed over
to a table where a decanter of whisky and a carafe of water stood, and
filling a glass half-full of liquor, reseated himself and turned it off
with an easy yet dignified inclination towards his host.
For once only Mr. Dumphy regretted the absence of dignity in his own
manner. It was quite evident that his usual brusqueness was utterly
ineffective here, and he quickly recognised in the Colonel the
representative of a class of men well known in California, from whom any
positive rudeness would have provoked a demand for satisfaction. It was
not a class of men that Mr. Dumphy had been in the habit of dealing
with, and he sat filled with impotent rage, but wise enough to restrain
its verbal expression, and thankful that none of his late guests were
present to witness his discomfiture. Only one good effect was due to his
visitor. Mr. Dumphy through baffled indignation and shame had become
sober.
"No, sir," continued Colonel Starbottle, setting his glass upon his
knee, and audibly smacking his large lips. "No, sir, I waited in
the--er--ante-chamber until I saw you part with your guests--until you
bade--er--adieu to a certain fair nymph--Ged, sir, I like your taste,
and I call myself a judge of fine women--'Blank it all,' I said to
myself, 'Blank it all, Star, you ain't goin' to pop out upon a man just
as he's ministering to Beauty and putting a shawl upon a pair of
alabaster shoulders like that!' Ha! ha! Ged, sir, I remembered myself
that in '43 in Washington at a party at Tom Benton's I was in just such
a position, sir. 'Are you never going to get that cloak on, Star?' she
says to me--the most beautiful creature, the acknowledged belle of that
whole winter--'43, sir--as a gentleman yourself you'll understand why I
don't particularise--'If I had my way, madam,' I said, 'I never would!'
I did, blank me. But you're not drinking, Mr. Dumphy, eh? A thimbleful,
sir, to our better acquaintance."
Not daring to trust himself to speak, Mr. Dumphy shook his head somewhat
impatiently, and Colonel Starbottle rose. As he did so it seemed as if
his shoulders had suddenly become broader and his chest distended until
his handkerchief and white waistcoat protruded through the breast of
his buttoned coat like a bursting grain of "pop corn." He advanced
slowly and with deliberate dignity to the side of Dumphy.
"If I have intruded upon your privacy, Mr. Dumphy," he said, with a
stately wave of his white hand, "if, as I surmise, from your
disinclination, sir, to call it by no other name, to exchange the
ordinary convivial courtesies common between gentlemen, sir,--you are
disposed to resent any reminiscences of mine as reflecting upon the
character of the young lady, sir, whom I had the pleasure to see in your
company--if such be the case, sir, Ged!--I am ready to retire now, sir,
and to give you to-morrow, or at any time, the satisfaction which no
gentleman ever refuses another, and which Culpepper Starbottle has never
been known to deny. My card, sir, you have already; my address, sir, is
St. Charles Hotel, where I and my friend, Mr. Dumphy, will be ready to
receive you."
"Look here," said Mr. Dumphy, in surly but sincere alarm, "I don't drink
because I've been drinking. No offence, Mr. Starbottle. I was only
waiting for you to open what you had on your mind in the way of
business, to order up a bottle of _Cliquot_ to enable us to better
digest it. Take your seat, Colonel. Bring champagne and two glasses." He
rose, and under pretence of going to the sideboard, added in a lower
tone to the servant who entered, "Stay within call, and in about ten
minutes bring me some important message from the Bank--you hear? A glass
of wine with you, Colonel. Happy to make your acquaintance! Here we go!"
The Colonel uttered a slight cough as if to clear away his momentary
severity, bowed with gracious dignity, touched the glass of his host,
drew out his handkerchief, wiped his mouth, and seated himself once
more.
"If my object," he began, with a wave of dignified depreciation, "were
simply one of ordinary business, I should have sought you, sir, in the
busy mart, and not among your Lares and Penates, nor in the blazing
lights of the festive hall. I should have sought you at that temple
which report and common rumour says that you, sir, as one of the
favoured sons of Fortune, have erected to her worship. In my intercourse
with the gifted John C. Calhoun I never sought him, sir, in the
gladiatorial arena of the Senate, but rather with the social glass in
the privacy of his own domicile. Ged, sir, in my profession, we
recognise some quality in our relations even when professional with
gentlemen that keep us from approaching them like a Yankee pedlar with
goods to sell!"
"What's your profession?" asked Mr. Dumphy.
"Until elected by the citizens of Siskiyou to represent them in the
legislative councils I practised at the bar. Since then I have been open
occasionally to retainers in difficult and delicate cases. In the
various intrigues that arise in politics, in the more complicated
relations of the two sexes--in, I may say, the two great passions of
mankind, Ambition and Love, my services have, I believe, been considered
of value. It has been my office, sir, to help the steed of vaulting
ambition--er--er--over the fence, and to dry the--er--tearful yet
glowing cheek of Beauty. But for the necessity of honour and secrecy in
my profession, sir, I could give you the names of some of the most
elegant women, and some of the first--the very first men in the land as
the clients of Culpepper Starbottle."
"Very sorry," began Mr. Dumphy, "but if you're expecting to put me among
your list of clients, I"----
Without taking the least notice of Dumphy's half-returned sneer, Colonel
Starbottle interrupted him coolly:
"Ged, sir!--it's out of the question, I'm retained on the other side."
The sneer instantly faded from Dumphy's face, and a look of genuine
surprise took its place.
"What do you mean?" he said curtly.
Colonel Starbottle drew his chair beside Dumphy, and leaning familiarly
over his desk took Mr. Dumphy's own penholder and persuasively
emphasised the points of his speech upon Mr. Dumphy's arm with the blunt
end. "Sir, when I say retained by the other side, it doesn't keep me
from doing the honourable thing with the defendant--from recognising a
gentleman and trying to settle this matter as between gentlemen."
"But what's all this about? Who is your plaintiff?" roared Dumphy,
forgetting himself in his rage.
"Ged, sir--it's a woman--of course. Don't think I'm accusing you of any
political ambition. Ha! ha! No, sir. You're like me! it's a
woman--lovely woman--I saw it at a glance! Gentlemen like you and me
don't go through to fifty years without giving some thought to these
dear little creatures. Sir, I despise a man who did. It's the weakness
of a great man, sir."
Mr. Dumphy pushed his chair back with the grim deliberation of a man who
had at last measured the strength of his adversary and was satisfied to
risk an encounter.
"Look here, Colonel Starbottle, I don't know or care who your plaintiff
is. I don't know or care how she may have been deceived or wronged or
disappointed or bamboozled, or what is the particular game that's up
now. But you're a man of the world, you say, and as a man of the world
and a man of sense, you know that no one in my position ever puts
himself in any woman's power. I can't afford it! I don't pretend to be
better than other men, but I ain't a fool. That's the difference
between me and your clients!"
"Yes--but, my boy, that _is_ the difference! Don't you see? In other
cases the woman's a beautiful woman, a charming creature, you know. Ged,
sometimes she's as proper and pious as a nun, but then the relations,
you see, ain't legal! But hang it all, my boy, this is--YOUR WIFE!"
Mr. Dumphy, with colourless cheeks, tried to laugh a reckless scornful
laugh. "My wife is dead!"
"A mistake--Ged, sir!--a most miserable mistake. Understand me. I don't
say that she hadn't ought to be! Ged, sir, from the look that that
little blue-eyed hussy gave you an hour ago--there ain't much use of
another woman around, but the fact is that she _is_ living. You thought
she was dead, and left her up there in the snow. She goes so far as to
say--you know how these women talk, Dumphy; Ged, sir, they'll say
anything when they get down on a man--she says it ain't your fault if
she wasn't dead! Eh? Sho?"
"A message, sir, business of the Bank, very important," said Dumphy's
servant, opening the door.
"Get out!" said Dumphy, with an oath.
"But, sir, they told me, sir"----
"Get out! will you?" roared Dumphy.
The door closed on his astonished face. "It's all--a--mistake," said
Dumphy, when he had gone. "They died of starvation--all of them--while I
was away hunting help. I've read the accounts."
Colonel Starbottle slowly drew from some vast moral elevation in his
breast pocket a well-worn paper. It proved when open to be a faded,
blackened, and be-thumbed document in Spanish. "Here is the report of
the Commander of the Presidio who sent out the expedition. You read
Spanish? Well. The bodies of all the other women were identified except
your wife's. Hang it, my boy, don't you see why she was excepted? She
wasn't there."
The Colonel darted a fat forefinger at his host and then drew back, and
settled his purpled chin and wattled cheeks conclusively in his enormous
shirt collar. Mr. Dumphy sank back in his chair at the contact as if the
finger of Fate had touched him.
CHAPTER V.
MRS. CONROY HAS AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
The hot weather had not been confined to San Francisco. San Pablo Bay
had glittered, and the yellow currents of the San Joaquin and Sacramento
glowed sullenly with a dull sluggish lava-like flow. No breeze stirred
the wild oats that drooped on the western slope of the Contra Costa
hills; the smoke of burning woods on the eastern hillsides rose silently
and steadily; the great wheat fields of the intermediate valleys clothed
themselves humbly in dust and ashes. A column of red dust accompanied
the Wingdam and One Horse Gulch stage-coach, a pillar of fire by day as
well as by night, and made the fainting passengers look longingly toward
the snow-patched Sierras beyond. It was hot in California; few had ever
seen the like, and those who had were looked upon as enemies of their
race. A rashly scientific man of Murphy's Camp who had a theory of his
own, and upon that had prophesied a continuance of the probable
recurrence of the earthquake shock, concluded he had better leave the
settlement until the principles of meteorology were better recognised
and established.
It was hot in One Horse Gulch--in the oven-like Gulch, on the burning
sands and scorching bars of the river. It was hot even on Conroy's Hill,
among the calm shadows of the dark-green pines--on the deep verandahs of
the Conroy _cottage orné_. Perhaps this was the reason why Mrs. Gabriel
Conroy, early that morning after the departure of her husband for the
mill, had evaded the varnished and white-leaded heats of her own house
and sought the more fragrant odours of the sedate pines beyond the
hilltop. I fear, however, that something was due to a mysterious note
which had reached her clandestinely the evening before, and which,
seated on the trunk of a prostrate pine, she was now reperusing.
I should like to sketch her as she sat there. A broad-brimmed straw hat
covered her head, that although squared a little too much at the temples
for shapeliness, was still made comely by the good taste with
which--aided by a crimping-iron--she had treated her fine-spun
electrical blonde hair. The heat had brought out a delicate dewy colour
in her usually pale face, and had heightened the intense nervous
brightness of her vivid grey eyes. From the same cause, probably, her
lips were slightly parted, so that the rigidity that usually
characterised their finely chiselled outlines was lost. She looked
healthier; the long flowing skirts which she affected, after the fashion
of most _petite_ women, were gathered at a waist scarcely as sylph-like
and unsubstantial as that which Gabriel first clasped after the accident
in the fateful cañon. She seemed a trifle more languid--more careful of
her personal comfort, and spent some time in adjusting herself to the
inequalities of her uncouth seat with a certain pouting peevishness of
manner that was quite as new to her character as it was certainly
feminine and charming. She held the open note in her thin, narrow,
white-tipped fingers, and glanced over it again with a slight smile. It
read as follows:--
"At ten o'clock I shall wait for you at the hill near the Big
Pine! You shall give me an interview if you know yourself well.
I say beware! I am strong, for I am injured!--VICTOR."
Mrs. Conroy folded the note again, still smiling, and placed it
carefully in her pocket. Then she sat patient, her hands clasped lightly
between her knees, the parasol open at her feet--the very picture of a
fond, confiding tryst. Then she suddenly drew her feet under her,
sideways, with a quick, nervous motion, and examined the ground
carefully with sincere distrust of all artful lurking vermin who lie in
wait for helpless womanhood. Then she looked at her watch.
It was five minutes past the hour. There was no sound in the dim,
slumbrous wood, but the far-off sleepy caw of a rook. A squirrel ran
impulsively halfway down the bark of the nearest pine, and catching
sight of her tilted parasol, suddenly flattened himself against the
bark, with outstretched limbs, a picture of abject terror. A bounding
hare came upon it suddenly and had a palpitation of the heart that he
thought he really never should get over. And then there was a slow
crackling in the underbrush as of a masculine tread, and Mrs. Conroy,
picking up her terrible parasol, shaded the cold fires of her grey eyes
with it and sat calm and expectant.
A figure came slowly and listlessly up the hill. When within a dozen
yards of her, she saw it was _not_ Victor. But when it approached nearer
she suddenly started to her feet with pallid cheeks and an exclamation
upon her lips. It was the Spanish translator of Pacific Street. She
would have flown, but on the instant he turned and recognised her with a
cry, a start, and a passion equal to her own. For a moment they stood
glaring at each other breathless but silent!
"Devarges!" said Mrs. Conroy, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
"Good God!"
The stranger uttered a bitter laugh. "Yes! Devarges!--the man who ran
away with you--Devarges the traitor! Devarges the betrayer of your
husband. Look at me! You know me--Henry Devarges! Your husband's
brother!--your old accomplice--your lover--your dupe!"
"Hush," she said, imploringly glancing around through the dim woods,
"for God's sake, hush!"
"And who are you," he went on, without heeding her, "which of the
Mesdames Devarges is it now? Or have you taken the name of the young
sprig of an officer for whom you deserted me and maybe in turn married?
Or did he refuse you even that excuse for your perfidy? Or is it the
wife and accomplice of this feeble-minded Conroy? What name shall I call
you? Tell me quick! Oh, I have much to say, but I wish to be polite,
madame; tell me to whom I am to speak!"
Despite the evident reality of his passion and fury there was something
so unreal and grotesque in his appearance--in his antique foppery, in
his dyed hair, in his false teeth, in his padded coat, in his thin
strapped legs, that this relentless woman cowered before him in very
shame, not of her crime but of her accomplice! "Hush," she said, "call
me your friend; I am always your friend, Henry. Call me anything, but
let me go from here. For God's sake, do you hear? Not so loud! Another
time and another place I will listen," and she drew slowly back, until,
scarce knowing what he did, she had led him away from the place of
rendezvous toward the ruined cabin. Here she felt that she was at least
safe from the interruption of Victor. "How came you here? How did you
find out what had become of me? Where have you been these long years?"
she asked hastily.
Within the last few moments she had regained partially the strange power
that she had always exerted over all men except Gabriel Conroy. The
stranger hesitated, and then answered in a voice that had more of
hopelessness than bitterness in its quality--
"I came here six years ago, a broken, ruined, and disgraced man. I had
no ambition but to hide myself from all who had known me, from that
brother whose wife I had stolen, and whose home I had broken up--from
you--you, Julie! you and your last lover--from the recollection of your
double treachery!" He had raised his voice here, but was checked by the
unflinching eye and cautionary gesture of the woman before him. "When
you abandoned me in St. Louis, I had no choice but death or a second
exile. I could not return to Switzerland, I could not live in the
sickening shadow of my crime and its bitter punishment. I came here. My
education, my knowledge of the language stood me in good stead. I might
have been a rich man, I might have been an influential one, but I only
used my opportunities for the bare necessaries of life and the means to
forget my trouble in dissipation. I became a drudge by day, a gambler by
night. I was always a gentleman. Men thought me crazy, an enthusiast,
but they learned to respect me. Traitor as I was in a larger trust, no
one doubted my honour or dared to question my integrity. But bah! what
is this to you? You!"
He would have turned from her again in very bitterness, but in the act
he caught her eye, and saw in it if not sympathy, at least a certain
critical admiration, that again brought him to her feet. For despicable
as this woman was, she was pleased at this pride in the man she had
betrayed, was gratified at the sentiment that lifted him above his dyed
hair and his pitiable foppery, and felt a certain honourable
satisfaction in the fact that, even after the lapse of years, he had
proved true to her own intuitions of him.
"I had been growing out of my despair, Julie," he went on, sadly; "I
was, or believed I was, forgetting my fault, forgetting even _you_, when
there came to me the news of my brother's death--by starvation. Listen
to me, Julie. One day there came to me for translation a document,
revealing the dreadful death of him--your husband, my brother--do you
hear?--by starvation! Driven from his home by shame, he had desperately
sought to hide himself as I had--accepted the hardship of
emigration--he, a gentleman and a man of letters--with the boors and
rabble of the plains, had shared their low trials and their vulgar
pains, and died among them, unknown and unrecorded."
"He died as he had lived," said Mrs. Conroy, passionately, "a traitor
and a hypocrite; he died following the fortunes of his paramour, an
uneducated, vulgar rustic, to whom, dying, he willed a fortune--this
girl--Grace Conroy. Thank God, I have the record! Hush! what's that?"
Whatever it was--a falling bough or the passing of some small animal in
the underbrush--it was past now. A dead silence enwrapped the two
solitary actors; they might have been the first man and the first woman,
so encompassed were they by Nature and solitude.
"No," she went on, hurriedly, in a lower tone, "it was the same old
story--the story of that girl at Basle--the story of deceit and
treachery which brought us first together, which made you, Henry, my
friend, which turned our sympathies into a more dangerous passion. You
have suffered. Ah, well, so have I. We are equal now."
Henry Devarges looked speechlessly upon his companion. Her voice
trembled, there were tears in her eyes, that had replaced the burning
light of womanly indignation. He had come there knowing her to have
been doubly treacherous to her husband and himself. She had not denied
it. He had come there to tax her with an infamous imposture, but had
found himself within the last minute glowing with sympathetic
condemnation of his own brother, and ready to accept the yet unoffered
and perfectly explicable theory of that imposture. More than that, he
began to feel that his own wrongs were slight in comparison with the
injuries received by this superior woman. The woman who endeavours to
justify herself to her jealous lover, always has a powerful ally in his
own self-love, and Devarges was quite willing to believe that even if he
had lost her love, he had never at least been deceived. And the answer
to the morality of this imposture was before him. Here was she married
to the surviving brother of the girl she had personated. Had he--had Dr.
Devarges ever exhibited as noble trust, as perfect appreciation of her
nature and sufferings? Had they not thrown away the priceless pearl of
this woman's love through ignorance and selfishness? You and I, my dear
sir, who are not in love with this most reprehensible creature, will be
quick to see the imperfect logic of Henry Devarges, but when a man
constitutes himself accuser, judge, and jury of the woman he loves, he
is very apt to believe he is giving a verdict when he is only entering a
_nolle prosequi_. It is probably that Mrs. Conroy had noticed this
weakness in her companion, even with her preoccupied fears of the
inopportune appearance of Victor, whom she felt she could have accounted
for much better in his absence. Victor was an impulsive person, and
there are times when this quality, generally adored by a self-restrained
sex, is apt to be confounding.
"Why did you come here to see me?" asked Mrs. Conroy, with a dangerous
smile. "Only to abuse me?"
"There is another grant in existence for the same land that you claim
as Grace Conroy or Mrs. Conroy," returned Devarges, with masculine
bluntness, "a grant given prior to that made to my brother Paul. A
suspicion that some imposture has been practised is entertained by the
party holding the grant, and I have been requested to get at the facts."
Mrs. Conroy's grey eyes lightened. "And how were these suspicions
aroused?"
"By an anonymous letter."
"And you have seen it?"
"Yes; both it and the handwriting in portions of the grant are
identical."
"And you know the hand?"
"I do; it is that of a man now here, an old Californian--Victor
Ramirez!"
He fixed his eyes upon her; unabashed she turned her own clear glance on
his, and asked, with a dazzling smile--
"But does not your client know that, whether this grant is a forgery or
not, my husband's title is good?"
"Yes; but the sympathies of my client, as you call _her_, are interested
in the orphan girl Grace."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Conroy, with the faintest possible sigh, "your client,
for whom you have travelled--how many miles?--is a woman."
Half-pleased, but half-embarrassed, Devarges said "Yes."
"I understand," said Mrs. Conroy slowly. "A young woman, perhaps a good,
a _pretty_ one! And you have said, 'I will prove this Mrs. Conroy an
impostor,' and you are here. Well, I do not blame you. You are a man. It
is well perhaps it is so."
"But, Julie, hear me!" interrupted the alarmed Devarges.
"No more!" said Mrs. Conroy, rising, and waving her thin white hand, "I
do not blame you. I could expect--I deserve--no more! Go back to your
client, sir, tell her that you have seen Julie Devarges, the impostor.
Tell her to go and press her claim, and that you will assist her. Finish
the work that the anonymous letter-writer has begun, and earn your
absolution for your crime and my folly. Get your reward--you deserve
it--but tell her to thank God for having raised up to her better friends
than Julie Devarges ever possessed in the heyday of her beauty. Go!
Farewell! No; let me go, Henry Devarges, I am going to my husband. He at
least has known how to forgive and protect a friendless and erring
woman."
Before the astonished man could recover his senses, elusive as a sunbeam
she had slipped through his fingers and was gone. For a moment only he
followed the flash of her white skirt through the dark aisles of the
forest, and then the pillared trees, crowding in upon each other, hid
her from view.
Perhaps it was well, for a moment later Victor Ramirez, flushed,
wild-eyed, dishevelled, and panting, stumbled blindly upon the trail,
and blundered into Devarges' presence. The two men eyed each other in
silence.
"A hot day for a walk!" said Devarges, with an ill-concealed sneer.
"Vengeance of God! you are right, it is," returned Victor. "And you?"
"Oh, I have been fighting flies. Good-day!"
CHAPTER VI.
GABRIEL DISCARDS HIS HOME AND WEALTH.
I am sorry to say that Mrs. Conroy's expression as she fled was not
entirely consistent with the grieved and heart-broken manner with which
she had just closed the interview with Henry Devarges. Something of a
smile lurked about the corners of her thin lips as she tripped up the
steps of her house, and stood panting a little with the exertion in the
shadow of the porch. But here she suddenly found herself becoming quite
faint, and entering the apparently empty house, passed at once to her
boudoir, and threw herself exhaustedly on the lounge with a certain
peevish discontent at her physical weakness. No one had seen her enter;
the Chinese servants were congregated in the distant wash-house. Her
housekeeper had taken advantage of her absence to ride to the town. The
unusual heat was felt to be an apology for any domestic negligence.
She was very thoughtful. The shock she had felt on first meeting
Devarges was past; she was satisfied she still retained an influence
over him sufficient to keep him her ally against Ramirez, whom she felt
she now had reason to fear. Hitherto his jealousy had only shown itself
in vapouring and bravado; she had been willing to believe him capable of
offering her physical violence in his insane fury, and had not feared
it, but this deliberately planned treachery made her tremble. She would
see Devarges again; she would recite the wrongs she had received from
the dead brother and husband, and in Henry's weak attempt to still his
own conscience with that excuse, she could trust to him to keep Ramirez
in check, and withhold the exposure until she and Gabriel could get
away. Once out of the country, she could laugh at them both; once away,
she could devote herself to win the love of Gabriel, without which she
had begun to feel her life and schemes had been in vain. She would hurry
their departure at once. Since the report had spread affecting the value
of the mine, Gabriel, believing it true, had vaguely felt it his duty to
stand by his doubtful claim and accept its fortunes, and had delayed his
preparations. She would make him believe that it was Dumphy's wish that
he should go at once; she would make Dumphy write him to that effect.
She smiled as she thought of the power she had lately achieved over the
fears of this financial magnate. She would do all this, but for her
physical weakness. She ground her teeth as she thought of it: that at
such a time she should be--and yet a moment later a sudden fancy flashed
across her mind, and she closed her eyes that she might take in its
delusive sweetness more completely. It might be that it wanted only this
to touch his heart--some men were so strange--and if it were, O
God!--she stopped.
What was that noise? The house had been very quiet, so still that she
had heard a woodpecker tapping on its roof. But now she heard distinctly
the slow, heavy tread of a man in one of the upper chambers, which had
been used as a lumber-room. Mrs. Conroy had none of the nervous
apprehension of her sex in regard to probable ghosts or burglars--she
had too much of a man's practical pre-occupation for that, yet she
listened curiously. It came again. There was no mistaking it now. It was
the tread of the man with whom her thoughts had been busy--her husband.
What was he doing here? In the few months of their married life he had
never been home before at this hour. The lumber-room contained among
other things the _disjecta membra_ of his old mining life and
experience. He may have wanted something. There was an old bag which she
remembered he said contained some of his mother's dresses. Yet it was so
odd that he should go there now. Any other time but this. A terrible
superstitious dread--a dread that any other time she would have laughed
to scorn, began to creep over her. Hark! he was moving. She stopped
breathing.
The tread recommenced. It passed into the upper hall, and came slowly
down the stairs, each step recording itself in her heart-beats. It
reached the lower hall and seemed to hesitate; then it came slowly along
toward her door, and again hesitated.
Another moment of suspense, and she felt she would have screamed. And
then the door slowly opened, and Gabriel stood before her.
In one swift, intuitive, hopeless look she read her fate. He knew all!
And yet his eyes, except that they bore less of the usual perplexity and
embarrassment with which they had habitually met hers, though grave and
sad, had neither indignation nor anger. He had changed his clothes to a
rough miner's blouse and trousers, and carried in one hand a miner's
pack, and in the other a pick and shovel. He laid them down slowly and
deliberately, and seeing her eyes fixed upon them with a nervous
intensity, began apologetically--
"They contains, ma'am, on'y a blanket and a few duds ez I allus used to
carry with me. I'll open it ef you say so. But you know me, ma'am, well
enough to allow that I'd take nothin' outer this yer house ez I didn't
bring inter it."
"You are going away," she said, in a voice that was not audible to
herself, but seemed to vaguely echo in her mental consciousness.
"I be. Ef ye don't know why, ma'am, I reckon ez you'll hear it from the
same vyce ez I did. It's on'y the squar thing to say afore I go, ez it
ain't my fault nor hiz'n. I was on the hill this mornin' in the ole
cabin."
It seemed as if he had told her this before, so old and self-evident the
fact appeared.
"I was sayin' I woz on the hill, when I heerd vyces, and lookin' out I
seed you with a stranger. From wot ye know o' me and my ways, ma'am, it
ain't like me to listen to thet wot ain't allowed for me to hear. And ye
might hev stood thar ontel now ef I hadn't seed a chap dodgin' round
behind the trees, spyin' and list'nin'. When I seed thet man I knowed
him to be a pore Mexican, whose legs I'd tended yer in the Gulch mor'n a
year ago. I went up to him, and when he seed me he'd hev run. But I laid
my hand onto him--and--he stayed!"
There was something so unconsciously large and fine in the slight
gesture of this giant's hand as he emphasised his speech, that even
through her swiftly rising pride Mrs. Conroy was awed and thrilled by
it. But the next moment she found herself saying--whether aloud or not
she could not tell--"If he had loved me, he would have killed him then
and there."
"Wot thet man sed to me--bein' flustered and savage-like, along o' bein'
choked hard to keep him from singin' out and breakin' in upon you and
thet entire stranger--ain't fur me to say. Knowin' him longer than I do,
I reckon you suspect 'bout wot it was. That it ez the truth I read it in
your face now, ma'am, ez I reckon I might hev read it off and on in many
ways and vari's styles sens we've been yer together, on'y I waz thet
weak and ondecided yer."
He raised his hand to his forehead here, and with his broad palm
appeared to wipe away the trouble and perplexity that had overshadowed
it. He then drew a paper from his breast.
"I've drawed up a little paper yer ez I'll hand over to Lawyer Maxwell,
makin' over back agin all ez I once hed o' you and all ez I ever expect
to hev. For I don't agree with that Mexican thet wot was gi'n to Grace
belongs to me. I allow ez she kin settle thet herself, ef she ever
comes, and ef I know thet chile, ma'am, she ain't goin' tech it with a
two-foot pole. We've allus bin simple folks, ma'am--though it ain't the
squar thing to take me for a sample--and oneddicated and common, but
thar ain't a Conroy ez lived ez was ever pinted for money, or ez ever
took more outer the kompany's wages than his grub and his clothes."
It was the first time that he had ever asserted himself in her presence,
and even then he did it half apologetically, yet with an unconscious
dignity in his manner that became him well. He reached down as he spoke
and took up his pick and his bundle, and turned to go.
"There is nothing then that you are leaving behind you?" she asked.
He raised his eyes squarely to hers.
"No," he said, simply, "nothing."
Oh, if she could have only spoken! Oh, had she but dared to tell him
that he had left behind that which he could not take away, that which
the mere instincts of his manhood would have stirred him to tenderness
and mercy, that which would have appealed to him through its very
helplessness and youth. But she dared not. That eloquence which an hour
before had been ready enough to sway the feelings of the man to whom she
had been faithless and did not love, failed her now. In the grasp of her
first and only hopeless passion this arch-hypocrite had lost even the
tact of the simplest of her sex. She did not even assume an
indifference! She said nothing; when she raised her eyes again he was
gone.
She was wrong. At the front door he stopped, hesitated a moment, and
then returned slowly and diffidently to the room. Her heart beat
rapidly, and then was still.
"Ye asked just now," he said, falteringly, "ef thar was anything ez I
was leavin' behind. Thar is--ef ye'll overlook my sayin' it. When you
and me allowed to leave fur furrin parts, I reckoned to leave thet
housekeeper behind, and unbeknowed to ye I gin her some money and a
charge. I told her thet if ever thet dear child--Sister Grace--came
here, thet she should take her in and do by her ez I would, and let me
know. Et may be a heap to ask, but ef it 'tain't too much--I--I
shouldn't--like--yer--to turn--thet innocent insuspectin' chile away
from the house thet she might take to be mine. Ye needn't let on
anythin' thet's gone--ye needn't tell her what a fool I've been, but
jest take her in and send for me. Lawyer Maxwell will gin ye my
address."
The sting recalled her benumbed life. She rose with a harsh dissonant
laugh and said, "Your wishes shall be fulfilled--if"--she hesitated a
moment--"_I_ am here."
But he did not hear the last sentence, and was gone.
CHAPTER VII.
WHAT PASSED UNDER THE PINE AND WHAT REMAINED THERE.
Ramirez was not as happy in his revenge as he had anticipated. He had,
in an instant of impulsive rage, fired his mine prematurely, and, as he
feared, impotently. Gabriel had not visibly sickened, faded, nor fallen
blighted under the exposure of his wife's deceit. It was even doubtful,
as far as Ramirez could judge from his quiet reception of the
revelation, whether he would even call that wife to account for it.
Again, Ramirez was unpleasantly conscious that this exposure had lost
some of its dignity and importance by being wrested from his as a
_confession_ made under pressure or duress. Worse than all, he had lost
the opportunity of previously threatening Mrs. Conroy with the
disclosure, and the delicious spectacle of her discomfiture. In point of
fact his revenge had been limited to the cautious cowardice of the
anonymous letter-writer, who, stabbing in the dark, enjoys neither the
contemplation of the agonies of his victim, nor the assertion of his own
individual power.
To this torturing reflection a terrible suspicion of the Spanish
translator, Perkins, was superadded. For Gabriel, Ramirez had only that
contempt which every lawless lover has for the lawful husband of his
mistress, while for Perkins he had that agonising doubt which every
lawless lover has for every other man but the husband. In making this
exposure had he not precipitated a catastrophe as fatal to himself as to
the husband? Might they not both drive this woman into the arms of
another man? Ramirez paced the little bedroom of the Grand Conroy Hotel,
a prey to that bastard remorse of all natures like his own,--the
overwhelming consciousness of opportunities for villany misspent.
Come what might he would see her again, and at once. He would let her
know that he suspected her relations with this translator. He would tell
her that he had written the letter--that he had forged the
grant--that----
A tap at the door recalled him to himself. It opened presently to Sal,
coy, bashful, and conscious. The evident agitation of this young
foreigner had to Sal's matter-of-fact comprehension only one origin--a
hopeless, consuming passion for herself.
"Dinner hez bin done gone an hour ago," said that arch virgin, "but I
put suthin' by for ye. Ye was inquirin' last night about them Conroys. I
thought I'd tell ye thet Gabril hez bin yer askin' arter Lawyer
Maxwell--which he's off to Sacramento--altho' one o' Sue Markle's most
intymit friends and steddeyist boarders!"
But Mr. Ramirez had no ear for Gabriel now.
"Tell to me, Mees Clark," he said, suddenly turning all his teeth on
her, with gasping civility, "where is this Señor Perkins, eh?"
"Thet shiny chap--ez looks like a old turned alpacker gownd!" said Sal;
"thet man ez I can't abear," she continued, with a delicately maidenly
suggestion that Ramirez need fear no rivalry from that quarter. "I don't
mind--and don't keer to know. He hezn't bin yer since mornin'. I reckon
he's up somewhar on Conroy's Hill. All I know ez thet he sent a message
yer to git ready his volise to put aboard the Wingdam stage to-night.
Are ye goin' with him?"
"No," said Ramirez, curtly.
"Axin' yer parding for the question, but seein' ez he'd got booked for
two places, I tho't ez maybe ye'd got tired o' plain mounting folks and
mounting ways, and waz goin' with him," and Sal threw an arch yet
reproachful glance at Ramirez.
"Booked for two seats," gasped Victor; "ah! for a lady perhaps--eh, Mees
Clark? for a lady?"
Sal bridled instantly at what might have seemed a suggestion of
impropriety on her part. "A lady--like his imperance--indeed! I'd like
to know who would demean theirselves by goin' with the like o' he! But
you're not startin' out agin without your dinner, and it waitin' ye in
the oven? No? La! Mr. Ramirez, ye must be in luv! I've heerd tell ez it
do take away the appetite; not knowin' o' my own experense, though it's
little hez passed my lips these two days, and only when tempted."
But before Sal could complete her diagnosis, Mr. Ramirez gasped a few
words of hasty excuse, seized his hat and hurried from the room.
Leaving Sal a second time to mourn over the effect of her coquettish
playfulness upon the sensitive Italian nature, Victor Ramirez, toiling
through the heat and fiery dust shaken from the wheels of incoming
teams, once more brushed his way up the long ascent of Conroy's Hill,
and did not stop until he reached its summit. Here he paused to collect
his scattered thoughts, to decide upon some plan of action, to control
the pulse of his beating temples, quickened by excitement and the
fatigue of the ascent, and to wipe the perspiration from his streaming
face. He must see her at once; but how and where? To go boldly to her
house would be to meet her in the presence of Gabriel, and that was no
longer an object; besides, if she were with this stranger it would not
probably be there. By haunting this nearest umbrage to the house he
would probably intercept them on their way to the Gulch, or overhear any
other conference. By lingering here he would avoid any interference from
Gabriel's cabin on the right, and yet be able to detect the approach of
any one from the road. The spot that he had chosen was, singularly
enough, in earlier days, Gabriel's favourite haunt for the indulgence of
his noontide contemplation and pipe. A great pine, the largest of its
fellows, towered in a little opening to the right, as if it had drawn
apart for seclusion, and obeying some mysterious attraction, Victor went
toward it and seated himself on an abutting root at its base. Here a
singular circumstance occurred, which at first filled him with
superstitious fear. The handkerchief with which he had wiped his
face--nay, his very shirt-front itself--suddenly appeared as if covered
with blood. A moment later he saw that the ensanguined hue was only due
to the dust through which he had plunged, blending with the perspiration
that on the least exertion still started from every pore of his burning
skin.
The sun was slowly sinking. The long shadow of Reservoir Ridge fell upon
Conroy's Hill, and seemed to cut down the tall pine that a moment before
had risen redly in the sunlight. The sounds of human labour slowly died
out of the Gulch below, the far-off whistle of teamsters in the Wingdam
road began to fail. One by one the red openings on the wooded hillside
opposite went out, as if Nature were putting up the shutters for the
day. With the gathering twilight Ramirez became more intensely alert
and watchful. Treading stealthily around the lone pine tree, with
shining eyes and gleaming teeth, he might have been mistaken for some
hesitating animal waiting for that boldness which should come with the
coming night. Suddenly he stopped, and leaning forward peered into the
increasing shadow. Coming up the trail from the town was a woman. Even
at that distance and by that uncertain light, Ramirez recognised the
flapping hat and ungainly stride. It was Sal--perdition! Might the devil
fly away with her! But she turned to the right with the trail that wound
toward Gabriel's hut and the cottage beyond, and Victor breathed, or
rather panted, more freely. And then a voice at his very side thrilled
him to his smallest fibre, and he turned quickly. It was Mrs. Conroy,
white, erect, and truculent.
"What are you doing here?" she said, with a sharp, quick utterance.
"Hush!" said Ramirez, trembling with the passion called up by the figure
before him. "Hush! There is one who has just come up the trail."
"What do I care who hears me now? You have made caution unnecessary,"
she responded, sharply. "All the world knows us now! and so I ask you
again, what are _you_ doing here?"
He would have approached her nearer, but she drew back, twitching her
long white skirt behind her with a single quick feminine motion of her
hand, as if to save it from contamination.
Victor laughed uneasily. "You have come to keep your appointment; it is
not my fault if I am late."
"I have come here because for the last half-hour I have watched you from
my verandah, coursing in and out among the trees like a hound as you
are! I have come to whip you off my land as I would a hound. But I have
first a word or two to say to you as the man you have assumed to be."
Standing there with the sunset glow over her erect, graceful figure, in
the pink flush of her cheek, in the cold fires of her eyes, in all the
thousand nameless magnetisms of her presence, there was so much of her
old power over this slave of passion, that the scorn of her words
touched him only to inflame him, and he would have grovelled at her feet
could he have touched the thin three fingers that she warningly waved at
him.
"You wrong me, Julie, by the God of Heaven! I was wild, mad, this
morning--you understand--for when I came to you I found you with
another! I had reason, Mother of God! I had reason for my madness,
reason enough; but I came in peace. Julie, I came in peace!"
"In peace," returned Mrs. Conroy, scornfully; "your note was a peaceful
one, indeed!"
"Ah! but I knew not how else to make you hear me. I had news--news you
understand, news that might save you, for I came from the woman who
holds the grant. Ah! you will listen, will you not? For one moment only,
Julie, hear me, and I am gone."
Mrs. Conroy, with abstracted gaze, leaned against the tree. "Go on," she
said coldly.
"Ah! you will listen then!" said Victor, joyfully; "and when you have
listened you shall understand! Well. First I have the fact that the
lawyer for this woman is the man who deserted the Grace Conroy in the
mountains--the man who was called Philip Ashley, but whose real name is
Poinsett."
"Who did you say?" said Mrs. Conroy, suddenly stepping from the tree,
and fining a pair of cruel eyes on Ramirez.
"Arthur Poinsett--an ex-soldier, an officer. Ah, you do not believe--I
swear to God it is so!"
"What has this to do with me?" she said scornfully, resuming her
position beside the pine. "Go on--or is this all?"
"No, but it is much. Look you! he is the affianced of a rich widow in
the Southern Country, you understand? No one knows his past. Ah, you
begin to comprehend. He does not dare to seek out the real Grace Conroy.
He shall not dare to press the claim of his client. Consequently, he
does nothing!"
"Is this all your news?"
"All!--ah, no. There is one more, but I dare not speak it here," he
said, glancing craftily around through the slowly darkening wood.
"Then it must remain untold," returned Mrs. Conroy, coldly; "for this is
our last and only interview."
"But, Julie!"
"Have you done?" she continued, in the same tone.
Whether her indifference was assumed or not, it was effective. Ramirez
glanced again quickly around, and then said, sulkily, "Come nearer, and
I will tell you. Ah, you doubt--you doubt? Be it so." But seeing that
she did not move, he drew toward the tree, and whispered--"Bend here
your head--I will whisper it."
Mrs. Conroy, evading his outstretched hand, bent her head. He whispered
a few words in her ear that were inaudible a foot from the tree.
"Did you tell this to him--to Gabriel?" she asked, fixing her eyes upon
him, yet without change in her frigid demeanour.
"No!--I swear to you, Julie, no! I would not have told him anything, but
I was wild, crazy. And he was a brute, a great bear. He held me fast,
here, so! I could not move. It was a forced confession. Yes--Mother of
God--by force!"
Luckily for Victor the darkness hid the scorn that momentarily flashed
in the woman's eyes at this corroboration of her husband's strength and
the weakness of the man before her. "And is this all that you have to
tell me?" she only said.
"All--I swear to you, Julie--all."
"Then listen, Victor Ramirez," she said, swiftly stepping from the tree
into the path before him, and facing him with a white and rigid face.
"Whatever was your purpose in coming here, it has been successful! You
have done all that you intended, and more! The man whose mind you came
to poison--the man you wished to turn against me--has gone!--has left
me--left me never to return!--he never loved me! Your exposure of me was
to him a godsend, for it gave him an excuse for the insults he has
heaped upon me, for the treachery he has always hidden in his bosom!"
Even in the darkness she could see the self-complacent flash of Victor's
teeth, could hear the quick, hurried sound of his breath as he bent his
head toward her, and knew that he was eagerly reaching out his hand for
hers. He would have caught her gesturing hand and covered it with
kisses, but that, divining his intention, without flinching from her
position, she whipped both her hands behind her.
"Well--you are satisfied! You have had your say and your way. Now I
shall have mine. Do you suppose I came here to-night to congratulate
you? No I came here to tell you that, insulted, outraged, and spurned as
I have been by my husband, Gabriel Conroy--cast off and degraded as I
stand here to-night--_I love him!_ Love him as I never loved any man
before; love him as I never shall love any man again; love him as I hate
you! Love him so that I shall follow him wherever he goes, if I have to
drag myself after him on my knees. His hatred is more precious to me
than your love. Do you hear me, Victor Ramirez? That is what _I_ came
here to tell you. More than that--listen! The secret you have whispered
to me just now, whether true or false, I shall take to him. I will help
him to find his sister. I will make him love me yet if I sacrifice you,
everybody, my own life, to do it! Do you hear that, Victor Ramirez, you
dog!--you Spanish mongrel!--you half-breed. Oh, grit your teeth there in
the darkness--I know you--grit your teeth as you did to-day when Gabriel
held you squirming under his thumb! It was a fine sight, Victor--worthy
of the manly Secretary who stole a dying girl's papers!--worthy of the
valiant soldier who abandoned his garrison to a Yankee pedlar and his
mule! Oh, I know you, sir, and have known you from the first day I made
you my tool--my dupe! Go on, sir, go on--draw your knife, do! I am not
afraid, coward! I shall not scream, I promise you! Come on!"
With an insane, articulate gasp of rage and shame, he sprang toward her
with an uplifted knife. But at the same instant she saw a hand reach
from the darkness and fall swiftly upon his shoulder, saw him turn and
with an oath struggle furiously in the arms of Devarges, and without
waiting to thank her deliverer, or learn the result of his interference,
darted by the struggling pair and fled.
Possessed only by a single idea, she ran swiftly to her home. Here she
pencilled a few hurried lines, and called one of her Chinese servants to
her side.
"Take this, Ah Fe, and give it to Mr. Conroy. You will find him at
Lawyer Maxwell's, or if not there he will tell you where he has gone.
But you must find him. If he has left town already, you must follow him.
Find him within an hour and I'll double that"--she placed a gold piece
in his hand. "Go at once."
However limited might have been Ah Fe's knowledge of the English
language, there was an eloquence in the woman's manner that needed no
translation. He nodded his head intelligently, said, "Me shabbe
you--muchee quick," caused the gold piece and the letter to instantly
vanish up his sleeve, and started from the house in a brisk trot. Nor
did he allow any incidental diversion to interfere with the business in
hand. The noise of struggling in the underbrush on Conroy's Hill and a
cry for help only extracted from Ah Fe the response, "You muchee
go-to-hellee--no foolee me!" as he trotted unconcernedly by. In half an
hour he had reached Lawyer Maxwell's office. But the news was not
favourable. Gabriel had left an hour before, they knew not where. Ah Fe
hesitated a moment, and then ran quickly down the hill to where a gang
of his fellow-countrymen were working in a ditch at the roadside. Ah Fe
paused, and uttered in a high recitative a series of the most
extraordinary ejaculations, utterly unintelligible to the few Americans
who chanced to be working near. But the effect was magical; in an
instant pick and shovel were laid aside, and before the astonished
miners could comprehend it the entire gang of Chinamen had dispersed,
and in another instant were scattered over the several trails leading
out of One Horse Gulch, except one.
That one was luckily taken by Ah Fe. In half an hour he came upon the
object of his search, settled on a boulder by the wayside, smoking his
evening pipe. His pick, shovel, and pack lay by his side. Ah Fe did not
waste time in preliminary speech or introduction. He simply handed the
missive to his master, and instantly turned his back upon him and
departed. In another half hour every Chinaman was back in the ditch,
working silently as if nothing had happened.
Gabriel laid aside his pipe and held the letter a moment hesitatingly
between his finger and thumb. Then opening it, he at once recognised the
small Italian hand with which his wife had kept his accounts and written
from his dictation, and something like a faint feeling of regret
overcame him as he gazed at it, without taking the meaning of the text.
And then, with the hesitation, repetition, and audible utterance of an
illiterate person, he slowly read the following:--
"I was wrong. You have left something behind you--a secret that
as you value your happiness, you must take with you. If you
come to Conroy's Hill within the next two hours you shall know
it, for I shall not enter that house again, and leave there
to-night for ever. I do not ask you to come for the sake of
your wife, but for the sake of a woman she once personated. You
will come because you love Grace, not because you care for
JULIE."
There was but one fact that Gabriel clearly grasped in this letter. That
was, that it referred to some news of Grace. That was enough. He put
away his pipe, rose, shouldered his pack and pick, and deliberately
retraced his steps. When he reached the town, with the shame-facedness
of a man who had just taken leave of it for ever, he avoided the main
thoroughfare, but did this so clumsily and incautiously, after his
simple fashion, that two or three of the tunnel-men noticed him
ascending the hill by an inconvenient and seldom used by-path. He did
not stay long, however, for in a short time--some said ten, others said
fifteen minutes--he was seen again, descending rapidly and recklessly,
and crossing the Gulch disappeared in the bushes, at the base of Bald
Mountain.
With the going down of the sun that night, the temperature fell also,
and the fierce, dry, desert heat that had filled the land for the past
few days, fled away before a fierce wind which rose with the coldly
rising moon, that, during the rest of the night, rode calmly over the
twisting tops of writhing pines on Conroy's Hill, over the rattling
windows of the town, and over the beaten dust of mountain roads. But
even with the night the wind passed too, and the sun arose the next
morning upon a hushed and silent landscape. It touched, according to its
habit, first the tall top of the giant pine on Conroy's Hill, and then
slid softly down its shaft until it reached the ground. And there it
found Victor Ramirez, with a knife thrust through his heart, lying
dead!
BOOK VI.
_A DIP._
CHAPTER I.
MR. HAMLIN'S RECREATION CONTINUED.
When Donna Dolores after the departure of Mrs. Sepulvida missed the
figure of Mr. Jack Hamlin from the plain before her window, she presumed
he had followed that lady and would have been surprised to have known
that he was at that moment within her castle, drinking _aguardiente_
with no less a personage than the solemn Don Juan Salvatierra. In point
of fact, with that easy audacity which distinguished him, Jack had
penetrated the courtyard, gained the hospitality of Don Juan without
even revealing his name and profession to that usually ceremonious
gentleman, and after holding him in delicious fascination for two hours,
had actually left him lamentably intoxicated, and utterly oblivious of
the character of his guest. Why Jack did not follow up his advantage by
seeking an interview with the mysterious _Señora_ who had touched him so
deeply I cannot say, nor could he himself afterwards determine. A sudden
bashfulness and timidity which he had never before experienced in his
relations with the sex, tied his own tongue, while Don Juan with the
garrulity which inebriety gave to his, poured forth the gossip of the
Mission and the household. It is possible also that a certain vague
hopelessness, equally novel to Jack, sent him away in lower spirits than
he came. It is not remarkable that Donna Dolores knew nothing of the
visit of this guest, until three days afterwards, for during that time
she was indisposed and did not leave her room, but it _was_ remarkable
that on learning it she flew into a paroxysm of indignation and rage
that alarmed Don Juan and frightened her attendants.
"And why was _I_ not told of the presence of this strange _Americano_?
Am I a child, holy St. Anthony! that I am to be kept in ignorance of my
duty as the hostess of the Blessed Trinity, or are you, Don Juan, my
dueña? A brave _caballero_, who, I surmise from your description, is the
same that protected me from insult at Mass last Sunday, and he is not to
'kiss my hand?' Mother of God! And his name--you have forgotten?"
In vain Juan protested that the strange _caballero_ had not requested an
audience, and that a proper maidenly spirit would have prevented the
Donna from appearing, unsought.
"Better that I should have been thought forward--and these _Americanos_
are of different habitude, my uncle--than that the Blessed Trinity
should have been misrepresented by the guzzling of _aguardiente_!"
Howbeit, Mr. Hamlin had not found the climate of San Antonio conducive
to that strict repose that his physician had recommended, and left it
the next day with an accession of feverish energy that was new to him.
He had idled away three days of excessive heat at Sacramento, and on the
fourth had flown to the mountains and found himself on the morning of
the first cool day at Wingdam.
"Anybody here I know?" he demanded of his faithful henchman, as Pete
brought in his clothes, freshly brushed for the morning toilette.
"No, sah!"
"Nor want to, eh?" continued the cynical Jack, leisurely getting out of
bed.
Pete reflected. "Dere is two o' dese yar Yeastern tourists--dem folks as
is goin' round inspectin' de country--down in de parlour. Jess come over
from de Big Trees. I reckon dey's some o' de same party--dem Frisco
chaps--Mass Dumphy and de odders haz been unloadin' to. Dey's mighty
green, and de boys along de road has been fillin' 'em up. It's jess so
much water on de dried apples dat Pete Dumphy's been shovin' into 'em."
Jack smiled grimly. "I reckon you needn't bring up my breakfast, Pete,
I'll go down."
The party thus obscurely referred to by Pete, were Mr. and Mrs. Raynor,
who had been "doing" the Big Trees, under the intelligent guidance of a
San Francisco editor who had been deputised by Mr. Dumphy to represent
Californian hospitality. They were exceedingly surprised during
breakfast by the entrance of a pale, handsome, languid gentleman,
accurately dressed, whose infinite neatness shamed their own bedraggled
appearance, and who, accompanied by his own servant, advanced and
quietly took a seat opposite the tourists and their guide. Mrs. Raynor
at once became conscious of some negligence in her toilette, and after a
moment's embarrassment excused herself and withdrew. Mr. Raynor,
impressed with the appearance of the stranger, telegraphed his curiosity
by elbowing the editor, who, however, for some reason best known to
himself, failed to respond. Possibly he recognised the presence of the
notorious Mr. Jack Hamlin in the dark-eyed stranger, and may have had
ample reasons for refraining from voicing the popular reputation of that
gentleman before his face, or possibly he may have been inattentive.
Howbeit, after Mr. Hamlin's entrance he pretermitted the hymn of
California praise and became reticent and absorbed in his morning paper.
Mr. Hamlin waited for the lady to retire, and then, calmly ignoring the
presence of any other individual, languidly drew from his pocket a
revolver and bowie-knife, and placing them in an easy habitual manner on
either side of his plate, glanced carelessly over the table, and then
called Pete to his side.
"Tell them," said Jack, quietly, "that I want some _large_ potatoes: ask
them what they mean by putting those little things on the table. Tell
them to be quick. Is your rifle loaded?"
"Yes, sah," said Pete, promptly, without relaxing a muscle of his
serious ebony face.
"Well--take it along with you."
But here the curiosity of Mr. Raynor, who had been just commenting on
the really enormous size of the potatoes, got the best of his prudence.
Failing to make his companion respond to his repeated elbowings, he
leaned over the table toward the languid stranger. "Excuse me, sir," he
said, politely, "but did I understand you to say that you thought these
potatoes _small_--that there are really larger ones to be had?"
"It's the first time," returned Jack gravely, "that I ever was insulted
by having a _whole_ potato brought to me. I didn't know it was possible
before. Perhaps in this part of the country the vegetables are poor. I'm
a stranger to this section. I take it you are too. But because I am a
stranger I don't see why I should be imposed upon."
"Ah, I see," said the mystified Raynor, "but if I might ask another
question--you'll excuse me if I'm impertinent--I noticed that you just
now advised your servant to take his gun into the kitchen with him;
surely"----
"Pete," interrupted Mr. Hamlin, languidly, "is a good nigger. I
shouldn't like to lose him! Perhaps you're right--maybe I am a little
over-cautious. But when a man has lost two servants by gunshot wounds
inside of three months, it makes him careful."
The perfect unconcern of the speaker, the reticence of his companion,
and the dead silence of the room in which this extraordinary speech was
uttered, filled the measure of Mr. Raynor's astonishment.
"Bless my soul! this is most extraordinary. I have seen nothing of
this," he said, appealing in dumb show to his companion.
Mr. Hamlin followed the direction of his eyes. "Your friend is a
Californian and knows what we think of any man who lies, and how most
men resent such an imputation, and I reckon he'll endorse me!"
The editor muttered a hasty assent that seemed to cover Mr. Hamlin's
various propositions, and then hurriedly withdrew, abandoning his charge
to Mr. Hamlin. What advantage Jack took of this situation, what
extravagant accounts he gravely offered of the vegetation in Lower
California, of the resources of the country, of the reckless disregard
of life and property, do not strictly belong to the record of this
veracious chronicle. Notwithstanding all this, Mr. Raynor found Mr.
Hamlin an exceedingly fascinating companion, and later, when the editor
had rejoined them, and Mr. Hamlin proceeded to beg that gentleman to
warn Mr. Raynor against gambling as the one seductive, besetting sin of
California, alleging that it had been the ruin of both the editor and
himself, the tourist was so struck with the frankness and high moral
principle of his new acquaintance as to insist upon his making one of
their party, an invitation that Mr. Hamlin might have accepted but for
the intervention of a singular occurrence.
During the conversation he had been curiously impressed by the
appearance of a stranger who had entered and modestly and diffidently
taken a seat near the door. To Mr. Hamlin this modesty and diffidence
appeared so curiously at variance with his superb physique, and the
exceptional strength and power shown in every muscle of his body, that
with his usual audacity he felt inclined to go forward and inquire "what
was his little game?" That he was lying in wait to be "picked up"--the
reader must really excuse me if I continue to borrow Mr. Hamlin's
expressive vernacular--that his diffidence and shyness was a deceit and
intended to entrap the unwary, he felt satisfied, and was proportionably
thrilled with a sense of admiration for him. That a rational human being
who held such a hand should be content with a small _ante_, without
"raising the other players,"--but I beg the fastidious reader's
forgiveness.
He was dressed in the ordinary miner's garb of the Southern mines,
perhaps a little more cleanly than the average miner by reason of his
taste, certainly more picturesque by reason of his statuesque
shapeliness. He wore a pair of white duck trousers, a jumper or loose
blouse of the same material, with a low-folded sailor's collar and
sailor-knotted neckerchief, which displayed, with an unconsciousness
quite characteristic of the man, the full, muscular column of his
sunburnt throat, except where it was hidden by a full, tawny beard. His
long, sandy curls fell naturally and equally on either side of the
centre of his low, broad forehead. His fair complexion, although greatly
tanned by exposure, seemed to have faded lately as by sickness or great
mental distress, a theory that had some confirmation in the fact that he
ate but little. His eyes were downcast, or, when raised, were so shy as
to avoid critical examination. Nevertheless his mere superficial
exterior was so striking as to attract the admiration of others besides
Mr. Hamlin; to excite the enthusiastic attention of Mr. Raynor, and to
enable the editor to offer him as a fair type of the mining population.
Embarrassed at last by a scrutiny that asserted itself even through his
habitual unconsciousness and pre-occupation, the subject of this
criticism arose and returned to the hotel verandah, where his pack and
mining implements were lying. Mr. Hamlin, who for the last few days had
been in a rather exceptional mood, for some occult reason which he could
not explain, felt like respecting the stranger's reserve, and quietly
lounged into the billiard-room to wait for the coming of the
stage-coach. As soon as his back was turned the editor took occasion to
offer Mr. Raynor his own estimate of Mr. Hamlin's character and
reputation, to correct his misstatements regarding Californian resources
and social habits, and to restore Mr. Raynor's possibly shaken faith in
California as a country especially adapted to the secure investment of
capital.
"As to the insecurity of life," said the editor, indignantly, "it is as
safe here as in New York or Boston. We admit that in the early days the
country was cursed by too many adventurers of the type of this very
gambler Hamlin, but I will venture to say that you will require no
better refutation of these calumnies than this very miner whom you
admired. He, sir, is a type of our mining population; strong, manly,
honest, unassuming, and perfectly gentle and retiring. We are proud,
sir, we admit, of such men--eh? Oh, that's nothing--only the arrival of
the up-stage!"
It certainly was something more. A momentarily increasing crowd of
breathless men were gathered on the verandah before the window and were
peering anxiously over each other's head toward a central group, among
which towered the tall figure of the very miner of whom they had been
speaking. More than that, there was a certain undefined, restless terror
in the air, as when the intense conscious passion or suffering of one
or two men communicates itself vaguely without speech, sometimes even
without visible sign to others. And then Yuba Bill, the driver of the
Wingdam coach, strode out from the crowd into the bar-room, drawing from
his hands with an evident effort his immense buckskin gloves.
"What's the row, Bill?" said half-a-dozen voices.
"Nothin'," said Bill, gruffly; "only the Sheriff of Calaveras ez kem
down with us hez nabbed his man jest in his very tracks."
"When, Bill?"
"Right yer--on this very verandy--furst man he seed!"
"What for?" "Who?" "What hed he bin doin'?" "Who is it?" "What's up?"
persisted the chorus.
"Killed a man up at One Horse Gulch, last night," said Bill, grasping
the decanter which the attentive bar-keeper had, without previous
request, placed before him.
"Who did he kill, Bill?"
"A little Mexican from 'Frisco by the name o' Ramirez."
"What's the man's name that killed him--the man that you took?"
The voice was Jack Hamlin's.
Yuba Bill instantly turned, put down his glass, wiped his mouth with his
sleeve, and then deliberately held out his great hand with an exhaustive
grin. "Dern my skin, ole man, if it ain't you! And how's things, eh? Yer
lookin' a little white in the gills, but peart and sassy, ez usual.
Heerd you was kinder off colour, down in Sacramento lass week. And it's
you, ole fell, and jest in time! Bar-keep--hist that pizen over to Jack.
Here to ye agin, ole man! But I'm glad to see ye!"
The crowd hung breathless over the two men--awestruck and respectful. It
was a meeting of the gods--Jack Hamlin and Yuba Bill. None dare speak.
Hamlin broke the silence at last, and put down his glass.
"What," he asked, lazily, yet with a slight colour on his cheek, "did
you say was the name of the chap that fetched that little Mexican?"
"Gabriel Conroy," said Bill.
CHAPTER II.
MR. HAMLIN TAKES A HAND.
The capture had been effected quietly. To the evident astonishment of
his captor, Gabriel had offered no resistance, but had yielded himself
up with a certain composed willingness, as if it were only the
preliminary step to the quicker solution of a problem that was sure to
be solved. It was observed, however, that he showed a degree of caution
that was new to him--asking to see the warrant, the particulars of the
discovery of the body, and utterly withholding that voluble explanation
or apology which all who knew his character confidently expected him to
give, whether guilty or innocent--a caution which, accepted by them as
simply the low cunning of the criminal, told against him. He submitted
quietly to a search that, however, disclosed no concealed weapon or
anything of import. But when a pair of handcuffs were shown him, he
changed colour, and those that were nearest to him saw that he breathed
hurriedly, and hesitated in the first words of some protest that rose to
his lips. The sheriff, a man of known intrepidity, who had the rapid and
clear intuition that comes with courageous self-possession noticed it
also, and quietly put the handcuffs back in his pocket.
"I reckon there's no use for 'em here; ef _you're_ willin' to take the
risks, _I_ am."
The eyes of the two men met, and Gabriel thanked him. In that look he
recognised and accepted the fact that on a motion to escape he would be
instantly killed.
They were to return with the next stage, and in the interval Gabriel was
placed in an upper room, and securely guarded. Here, falling into his
old apologetic manner, he asked permission to smoke a pipe, which was at
once granted by his good-humoured guard, and then threw himself at full
length upon the bed. The rising wind rattled the windows noisily, and
entering tossed the smoke-wreaths that rose from his pipe in fitful
waves about the room. The guard, who was much more embarrassed than his
charge, was relieved of an ineffectual attempt to carry on a
conversation suitable to the occasion by Gabriel's simple directness--
"You needn't put yourself out to pass the time o' day with me," he said,
gently, "that bein' extry to your reg'lar work. Ef you hev any friends
ez you'd like to talk to in your own line, invite 'em in, and don't mind
me."
But here the guard's embarrassment was further relieved by the entrance
of Joe Hall, the sheriff.
"There's a gentleman here to speak with you," he said to Gabriel, "he
can stay until we're ready to go." Turning to the guard, he added, "You
can take a chair outside the door in the hall. It's all right, it's the
prisoner's counsel."
At the word Gabriel looked up. Following the sheriff, Lawyer Maxwell
entered the room. He approached Gabriel, and extended with grave
cordiality a hand that had apparently wiped from his mouth the last
trace of mirthfulness at the door.
"I did not expect to see you again so soon, Gabriel, but as quickly as
the news reached me, and I heard that our friend Hall had a warrant for
you, I started after him. I would have got here before him, but my
horse gave out." He paused, and looked steadily at Gabriel. "Well!"
Gabriel looked at him in return, but did not speak.
"I supposed you would need professional aid," he went on, with a slight
hesitation, "perhaps _mine_--knowing that I was aware of some of the
circumstances that preceded this affair."
"Wot circumstances?" asked Gabriel, with the sudden look of cunning that
had before prejudiced his captors.
"For Heaven's sake, Gabriel," said Maxwell, rising with a gesture of
impatience, "don't let us repeat the blunder of our first interview.
_This_ is a serious matter; _may be_ very serious to you. Think a
moment. Yesterday you sought my professional aid to deed to your wife
all your property, telling me that you were going away never to return
to One Horse Gulch. I do not ask you now _why_ you did it. I only want
you to reflect that I am just now the only man who knows that
circumstance--a circumstance that I can tell you as a lawyer is somewhat
important in the light of the crime that you are now charged with."
Maxwell waited for Gabriel to speak, wiping away as he waited the usual
smile that lingered around his lips. But Gabriel said nothing.
"Gabriel Conroy," said Lawyer Maxwell, suddenly dropping into the
vernacular of One Horse Gulch, "are you a fool?"
"Thet's so," said Gabriel, with the simplicity of a man admitting a
self-evident proposition, "Thet's so; I reckon I are."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Maxwell, again swiftly turning upon him, "if
you were!" He stopped, as if ashamed of his abruptness, and said more
quietly and persuasively, "Come, Gabriel, if you won't confess to _me_,
I suppose that I must to _you_. Six months ago I thought you an
impostor. Six months ago the woman who is now your wife charged you
with being an impostor; with assuming a name and right that did not
belong to you; in plain English, said that you had set yourself up as
Gabriel Conroy, and that she, who was Grace Conroy, the sister of the
real Gabriel, knew that you lied. She substantiated all this by proofs;
hang it," continued Maxwell, appealing in dumb show to the walls, "there
isn't a lawyer living as wouldn't have said it was a good case, and been
ready to push it in any court. Under these circumstances I sought you,
and you remember how. You know the result of that interview. I can tell
you now that if there ever was a man who palpably confessed to guilt
when he was innocent, _you_ were that man. Well, after your conduct
there was explained by Olly, without, however, damaging the original
evidence against you, or prejudicing her rights, this woman came to me
and said that she had discovered that you were the man who had saved her
life at the risk of your own, and that for the present she could not, in
delicacy, push her claim. When afterwards she told me that this
gratitude had--well, ripened into something more serious, and that she
had engaged herself to marry you, and so condone your offence, why, it
was woman-like and natural, and I suspected nothing. I believed her
story--believed she had a case. Yes, sir; the last six months I have
looked upon you as the creature of that woman's foolish magnanimity. I
could see that she was soft on you, and believed that you had fooled
her. I did, hang me! There, if you confess to being a fool, I do to
having been an infernal sight bigger one."
He stopped, erased the mirthful past with his hand, and went on--
"I began to suspect something when you came to me yesterday with this
story of your going away, and this disposal of your property. When I
heard of the murder of this stranger--one of your wife's witnesses to
her claim--near your house, your own flight, and the sudden
disappearance of your wife, my suspicions were strengthened. And when I
read this note from your wife, delivered to you last night by one of her
servants, and picked up early this morning near the body, my suspicions
were confirmed."
As he finished he took from his pocket a folded paper and handed it to
Gabriel. He received it mechanically, and opened it. It was his wife's
note of the preceding night. He took out his knife, still holding the
letter, and with its blade began stirring the bowl of his pipe. Then
after a pause, he asked cautiously--
"And how did _ye_ come by this yer?"
"It was found by Sal Clark, brought to Mrs. Markle, and given to me. Its
existence is known only to three people, and they are your friends."
There was another pause, in which Gabriel deliberately stirred the
contents of his pipe. Mr. Maxwell examined him curiously.
"Well," he said, at last, "what is your defence?"
Gabriel sat up on the bed and rapped the bowl of his pipe against the
bedpost to loosen some refractory encrustation.
"Wot," he asked, gravely, "would be _your_ idee of a good defence? Axin
ye ez a lawyer having experin's in them things, and reck'nin' to pay ez
high ez eny man fo' the same, wot would _you_ call a good defence?" And
he gravely laid himself down again in an attitude of respectful
attention.
"We hope to prove," said Maxwell, really smiling, "that when you left
your house and came to my office the murdered man was alive and at his
hotel; that he went over to the hill long before you did; that _you_ did
not return until the evening--_after_ the murder was committed, as the
'secret' mentioned in your wife's mysterious note evidently shows. That
for some reason or other it was her design to place you in a suspicious
attitude. That the note shows that she refers to some fact of which she
was cognisant and not yourself."
"Suthin' that she knowed, and I didn't get to hear," translated Gabriel,
quietly.
"Exactly! Now you see the importance of that note."
Gabriel did not immediately reply, but slowly lifted his huge frame from
the bed, walked to the open window, still holding the paper in his
hands, deliberately tore it into the minutest shreds before the lawyer
could interfere, and then threw it from the window.
"Thet paper don't 'mount ter beans, no how!" he said, quietly but
explanatively as he returned to the bed.
It was Lawyer Maxwell's turn to become dumb. In his astonished
abstraction he forgot to wipe his mouth, and gazed at Gabriel with his
nervous smile as if his client had just perpetrated a practical joke of
the first magnitude.
"Ef it's the same to you, I'll just gin ye me idee of a de-fence," said
Gabriel, apologetically, relighting his pipe, "allowin' o' course that
you knows best, and askin' no deduckshun from your charges for advice.
Well, you jess stands up afore the jedge, and you slings 'em a yarn
suthin' like this: 'Yer's me, for instans,' you sez, sez you, 'ez
gambols--gambols very deep--jess fights the tiger, wharever and whenever
found, the same bein' onbeknownst ter folks gin'rally, and spechil te my
wife, ez was July. Yer's me been gambolin' desprit with this yer man,
Victyor Ramyirez, and gets lifted bad! and we hez, so to speak, a
differculty about some pints in the game. I allows one thing, he allows
another, and this yer man gives me the lie and I stabs him!' Stop--hole
your hosses!" interjected Gabriel, suddenly, "thet looks bad, don't it?
he bein' a small man, a little feller 'bout your size. No! Well, this
yer's the way we puts it up: 'Seving men--_seving_--friends o' his,
comes at me, permiskis like, one down, and nex' comes on, and we hez it
mighty lively thar fur an hour, until me, bein' in a tight place, hez to
use a knife and cuts this yer man bad!' Thar, that's 'bout the thing!
Now ez to my runnin' away, you sez, sez you, ez how I disremembers owin'
to the 'citement that I hez a 'pintent in Sacramento the very nex' day,
and waltzes down yer to keep it, in a hurry. Ef they want to know whar
July ez, you sez she gits wild on my not comin' home, and starts that
very night arter me. Thar, thet's 'bout my idee--puttin' it o' course in
your own shape, and slingin' in them bits o' po'try and garbage, and
kinder sassin' the plaintiff's counsel, ez you know goes down afore a
jedge and jury."
Maxwell rose hopelessly,--"Then, if I understand you, you intend to
admit"----
"Thet I done it? In course!" replied Gabriel; "but," he added, with a
cunning twinkle in his eye, "justifybly--justifyble homyside, ye
mind!--bein' in fear o' my life from seving men. In course," he added,
hurriedly, "I can't identify them seving strangers in the dark, so
thar's no harm or suspicion goin' to be done enny o' the boys in the
Gulch."
Maxwell walked gravely to the window, and stood looking out without
speaking. Suddenly he turned upon Gabriel with a brighter face and more
earnest manner. "Where's Olly?"
Gabriel's face fell. He hesitated a moment. "I was on my way to the
school in Sacramento whar she iz."
"You must send for her--I must see her at once!"
Gabriel laid his powerful hand on the lawyer's shoulder. "She
izn't--that chile--to knows anythin' o' this. You hear?" he said, in a
voice that began in tones of deprecation, and ended in a note of stern
warning.
"How are you to keep it from her?" said Maxwell, as determinedly. "In
less than twenty-four hours every newspaper in the state will have
it--with their own version and comments. No; you must see her. She must
hear it first from your own lips."
"But--I--can't--see--her just now," said Gabriel, with a voice that for
the first time during their interview faltered in its accents.
"Nor need you," responded the lawyer, quickly. "Trust that to me. _I_
will see her, and you shall afterwards. You need not fear I will
prejudice your case. Give me the address! Quick!" he added, as the sound
of footsteps and voices approaching the room, came from the hall.
Gabriel did as he requested. "Now one word," he continued hurriedly, as
the footsteps halted at the door.
"Yes," said Gabriel.
"As you value your life and Olly's happiness, hold your tongue."
Gabriel nodded with cunning comprehension. The door opened to Mr. Jack
Hamlin, diabolically mischievous, self-confident and audacious! With a
familiar nod to Maxwell he stepped quickly before Gabriel and extended
his hand. Simply, yet conscious of obeying some vague magnetic
influence, Gabriel reached out his own hand and took Jack's white,
nervous fingers in his own calm, massive grasp.
"Glad to see you, pard!" said that gentleman, showing his white teeth
and reaching up to clap his disengaged hand on Gabriel's shoulder. "Glad
to see you, old boy,--even if you have cut in and taken a job out of my
hands that I was rather lyin' by to do myself. Sooner or later I'd have
fetched that Mexican--if you hadn't dropped into my seat and taken up my
hand. Oh, it's all right, Mack!" he said, intercepting the quick look of
caution that Maxwell darted at his client, "don't do that. We're all
friends here. If you want me to testify, I'll take my oath that there
hasn't been a day this six months that that infernal hound, Ramirez,
wasn't jest pantin' to be planted in his tracks! I can hardly believe I
ain't done it myself." He stopped, partly to enjoy the palpable
uneasiness of Maxwell, and perhaps in some admiration of Gabriel's
physique.
Maxwell quickly seized this point of vantage. "You can do your friend
here a very great service," he said to Jack, lowering his voice as he
spoke.
Jack laughed. "No, Mack, it won't do! They wouldn't believe me! There
ain't judge or jury you could play that on!"
"You don't understand me," said Maxwell, laughing a little awkwardly. "I
didn't mean that, Jack. This man was going to Sacramento to see his
little sister"----
"Go on," said Jack, with much gravity; "of course he was. I know that.
'Dear brother, dear brother, come home with me now!' Certainly. So'm I.
Goin' to see an innocent little thing 'bout seventeen years old, blue
eyes and curly hair! Always go there once a week. Says he must come!
Says she'll"----he stopped in the full tide of his irony, for, looking
up, he caught a glimpse of Gabriel's simple, troubled face and sadly
reproachful eyes. "Look here," said Jack, turning savagely on Maxwell,
"what are you talking about anyway?"
"I mean what I say," returned Maxwell, quickly. "He was going to see his
sister--a mere child. Of course he can't go now. But he must see her--if
she can be brought to him. Can you--_will_ you do it?"
Jack cast another swift glance at Gabriel. "Count me in," he said,
promptly; "when shall I go?"
"Now--at once."
"All right. Where shall I fetch her to?"
"One Horse Gulch."
"The game's made," said Jack, sententiously. "She'll be there by sundown
to-morrow." He was off like a flash, but as swiftly returned, and called
Maxwell to the door. "Look here," he said, in a whisper, "p'r'aps it
would be as well if the sheriff didn't know I was _his_ friend," he went
on, indicating Gabriel with a toss of his head and a wink of his black
eye, "because, you see, Joe Hall and I ain't friends. We had a little
difficulty, and some shootin' and foolishness down at Marysville last
year. Joe's a good, square man, but he ain't above prejudice, and it
might go against our man."
Maxwell nodded, and Jack once more darted off.
But his colour was so high, and his exaltation so excessive, that when
he reached his room his faithful Pete looked at him in undisguised
alarm. "Bress us--it tain't no whisky, Mars Jack, arter all de doctors
tole you?" he said, clasping his hands in dismay.
The bare suggestion was enough for Jack in his present hilarious humour.
He instantly hiccuped, lapsed wildly over against Pete with artfully
simulated alcoholic weakness, tumbled him on the floor, and grasping his
white, woolly head, waved over it a boot-jack, and frantically demanded
"another bottle." Then he laughed; as suddenly got up with the greatest
gravity and a complete change in his demeanour, and wanted to know,
severely, what he, Pete, meant by lying there on the floor in a state of
beastly intoxication?
"Bress me! Mars Jack, but ye _did_ frighten me. I jiss allowed dem
tourists downstairs had been gettin' ye tight."
"You did--you degraded old ruffian! If you'd been reading Volney's
'Ruins,' or reflectin' on some of those moral maxims that I'm just
wastin' my time and health unloading to you, instead of making me the
subject of your inebriated reveries, you wouldn't get picked up so
often. Pack my valise, and chuck it into some horse and buggy--no matter
whose. Be quick."
"Is we gwine to Sacramento, Mars Jack?"
"_We?_ No, sir. _I'm_ going--alone! What I'm doing now, sir, is only the
result or calm reflection--of lying awake nights taking points and jest
spottin' the whole situation. And I'm convinced, Peter, that I can stay
with you no longer. You've been hackin' the keen edge of my finer
feelin's; playin' it very low down on my moral and religious nature,
generally ringin' in a cold deck on my spiritual condition for the last
five years. You've jest cut up thet rough with my higher emotions thet
there ain't enough left to chip in on a ten-cent ante. Five years ago,"
continued Jack, coolly, brushing his curls before the glass, "I fell
into your hands a guileless, simple youth, in the first flush of
manhood, knowin' no points, easily picked up on my sensibilities, and
travellin', so to speak, on my shape! And where am I now? Echo answers
'where?' and passes for a euchre! No, Peter, I leave you to-night.
Wretched misleader of youth, gummy old man with the strawberry eyebrows,
farewell!"
Evidently this style of exordium was no novelty to Pete, for without
apparently paying the least attention to it, he went on surlily packing
his master's valise. When he had finished he looked up at Mr. Hamlin,
who was humming, in a heart-broken way, "_Yes, we must part_," varied by
occasional glances of exaggerated reproach at Pete, and said, as he
shouldered the valise--
"Dis yer ain't no woman foolishness, Mars Jack, like down at dat yar
Mission?"
"Your suggestion, Peter," returned Jack, with dignity, "emanates from a
moral sentiment debased by Love Feasts and Camp Meetings, and an
intellect weakened by Rum and Gum and the contact of Lager Beer Jerkers.
It is worthy of a short-card sharp and a keno flopper, which I have, I
regret to say, long suspected you to be. Farewell! You will stay here
until I come back. If I don't come back by the day after to-morrow, come
to One Horse Gulch. Pay the bill, and don't knock down for yourself more
than seventy-five per cent. Remember I am getting old and feeble. You
are yet young, with a brilliant future before you. Git."
He tossed a handful of gold on the bed, adjusted his hat carefully over
his curls, and strode from the room. In the lower hall he stopped long
enough to take aside Mr. Raynor, and with an appearance of the greatest
conscientiousness, to correct an error of two feet in the measurements
he had given him that morning of an enormous pine tree in whose
prostrate trunk he, Mr. Hamlin, had once found a peaceful, happy tribe
of one hundred Indians living. Then lifting his hat with marked
politeness to Mrs. Raynor, and totally ignoring the presence of Mr.
Raynor's mentor and companion, he leaped lightly into the buggy and
drove away.
"An entertaining fellow," said Mr. Raynor, glancing after the cloud of
dust that flew from the untarrying wheels of Mr. Hamlin's chariot.
"And so gentlemanly," smiled Mrs. Raynor.
But the journalistic conservator of the public morals of California, in
and for the city and county of San Francisco, looked grave, and
deprecated even that feeble praise of the departed. "His class are a
curse to the country. They hold the law in contempt; they retard by the
example of their extravagance the virtues of economy and thrift; they
are consumers and not producers; they bring the fair fame of this land
into question by those who foolishly take them for a type of the
people."
"But, dear me," said Mrs. Raynor, pouting, "where your gamblers and bad
men are so fascinating, and your honest miners are so dreadfully
murderous, and kill people, and then sit down to breakfast with you as
if nothing had happened, what are you going to do?"
The journalist did not immediately reply. In the course of some eloquent
remarks, as unexceptionable in morality as in diction, which I regret I
have not space to reproduce here, he, however, intimated that there was
still an Unfettered Press, which "scintillated" and "shone" and "lashed"
and "stung" and "exposed" and "tore away the veil," and became at
various times a Palladium and a Watchtower, and did and was a great many
other remarkable things peculiar to an Unfettered Press in a pioneer
community, when untrammelled by the enervating conditions of an effete
civilisation.
"And what have they done with the murderer?" asked Mr. Raynor,
repressing a slight yawn.
"Taken him back to One Horse Gulch half an hour ago. I reckon he'd as
lief stayed here," said a bystander. "From the way things are pintin',
it looks as if it might be putty lively for him up thar!"
"What do you mean?" asked Raynor, curiously.
"Well, two or three of them old Vigilantes from Angel's passed yer a
minit ago with their rifles, goin' up that way," returned the man,
lazily. "Mayn't be nothing in it, but it looks mighty like"----
"Like what?" asked Mr. Raynor, a little nervously.
"Lynchin'!" said the man.
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH MR. DUMPHY TAKES POINSETT INTO HIS CONFIDENCE.
The cool weather of the morning following Mr. Dumphy's momentous
interview with Colonel Starbottle, contributed somewhat to restore the
former gentleman's tranquillity, which had been considerably disturbed.
He had, moreover, a vague recollection of having invited Colonel
Starbottle to visit him socially, and a nervous dread of meeting this
man, whose audacity was equal to his own, in the company of others.
Braced, however, by the tonic of the clear exhilarating air, and
sustained by the presence of his clerks and the respectful homage of his
business associates, he despatched a note to Arthur Poinsett requesting
an interview. Punctually at the hour named that gentleman presented
himself, and was languidly surprised when Mr. Dumphy called his clerk
and gave positive orders that their interview was not to be disturbed
and to refuse admittance to all other visitors. And then Mr. Dumphy, in
a peremptory, practical statement which his business habits and
temperament had brought to a perfection that Arthur could not help
admiring, presented the details of his interview with Colonel
Starbottle. "Now, I want you to help me. I have sent to you for that
business purpose. You understand, this is not a matter for the Bank's
regular counsel. Now what do you propose?"
"First, let me ask you, do you believe your wife is living?"
"No," said Dumphy, promptly, "but of course I don't know."
"Then let me relieve your mind at once, and tell you that she is not."
"You know this to be a fact?" asked Dumphy.
"I do. The body supposed to be Grace Conroy's and so identified, was
your wife's. I recognised it at once, knowing Grace Conroy to have been
absent at the culmination of the tragedy."
"And why did you not correct the mistake?"
"That is _my_ business," said Arthur, haughtily, "and I believe I have
been invited here to attend to _yours_. Your wife is dead."
"Then," said Mr. Dumphy, rising with a brisk business air, "if you are
willing to testify to that fact, I reckon there is nothing more to be
done."
Arthur did not rise, but sat watching Mr. Dumphy with an unmoved face.
After a moment Mr. Dumphy sat down again, and looked aggressively but
nervously at Arthur. "Well," he said, at last.
"Is that all?" asked Arthur, quietly; "are you willing to go on and
establish the fact?"
"Don't know what you mean!" said Dumphy, with an attempted frankness
which failed signally.
"One moment, Mr. Dumphy. You are a shrewd business man. Now do you
suppose the person--whoever he or she may be, who has sent Colonel
Starbottle to you, relies alone upon your inability to legally prove
your wife's death? May they not calculate somewhat on your
_indisposition_ to prove it legally; on the theory that you'd rather not
open the case, for instance?"
Mr. Dumphy hesitated a moment and bit his lip. "Of course," he said,
shortly, "there'd be some talk among my enemies about my deserting my
wife"----
"And child," suggested Arthur.
"And child," repeated Dumphy, savagely, "and not coming back
again--there'd be suthin' in the papers about it, unless I paid 'em, but
what's that!--deserting one's wife isn't such a new thing in
California."
"That is so," said Arthur, with a sarcasm that was none the less sincere
because he felt its applicability to himself.
"But we're not getting on," said Mr. Dumphy, impatiently. "What's to be
done? That's what I've sent to you for."
"Now that we know it is not your _wife_--we must find out _who_ it is
that stands back of Colonel Starbottle. It is evidently some one who
knows, at least, as much as we do of the facts; we are lucky if they
know no more. Can you think of any one? Who are the survivors? Let's
see; you, myself, possibly Grace"----
"It couldn't be Grace Conroy, really alive!" interrupted Dumphy hastily.
"No," said Arthur, quietly, "you remember _she_ was not present at the
time."
"Gabriel?"
"I hardly think so. Besides, he is a friend of yours."
"It couldn't be"--Dumphy stopped in his speech, with a certain savage
alarm in his looks. Arthur noticed it--and quietly went on.
"Who 'couldn't' it be?"
"Nothing--nobody. I was only thinking if Gabriel or somebody could have
told the story to some designing rascal."
"Hardly--in sufficient detail."
"Well," said Dumphy, with his coarse bark-like laugh, "if I've got to
pay to see Mrs. Dumphy decently buried, I suppose I can rely upon you to
see that it's done without a chance of resurrection. Find out who
Starbottle's friend is and how much he or she expects. If I've got to
pay for this thing I'll do it now, and get the benefit of absolute
silence. So I'll leave it in your hands," and he again rose as if
dismissing the subject and his visitor, after his habitual business
manner.
"Dumphy," said Arthur, still keeping his own seat, and ignoring the
significance of Dumphy's manner. "There are two professions that suffer
from a want of frankness in the men who seek their services. Those
professions are Medicine and the Law. I can understand why a man seeks
to deceive his physician, because he is humbugging himself; but I can't
see why he is not frank to his lawyer! You are no exception to the rule.
You are now concealing from _me_, whose aid you have sought, some very
important reason why you wish to have this whole affair hidden beneath
the snow of Starvation Camp."
"Don't know what you're driving at," said Dumphy. But he sat down again.
"Well, listen to me, and perhaps I can make my meaning clearer. My
acquaintance with the late Dr. Devarges began some months before we saw
you. During our intimacy he often spoke to me of his scientific
discoveries, in which I took some interest, and I remember seeing among
his papers frequent records and descriptions of localities in the
foot-hills, which he thought bore the indications of great mineral
wealth. At that time the Doctor's theories and speculations appeared to
me to be visionary, and the records of no value. Nevertheless, when we
were shut up in Starvation Camp, and it seemed doubtful if the Doctor
would survive his discoveries, at his request I deposited his papers and
specimens in a cairn at Monument Point. After the catastrophe, on my
return with the relief party to camp, we found that the cairn had been
opened by some one and the papers and specimens scattered on the snow.
We supposed this to have been the work of Mrs. Brackett, who, in search
of food, had broken the cairn, taken out the specimens, and died from
the effects of the poison with which they had been preserved."
He paused and looked at Dumphy, who did not speak.
"Now," continued Arthur, "like all Californians I have followed your
various successes with interest and wonder. I have noticed, with the
gratification that all your friends experience, the singular good
fortune which has distinguished your mining enterprises, and the claims
you have located. But I have been cognisant of a fact, unknown I think
to any other of your friends, that nearly all of the localities of your
successful claims, by a singular coincidence, agree with the memorandums
of Dr. Devarges!"
Dumphy sprang to his feet with a savage, brutal laugh. "So," he shouted,
coarsely, "that's the game, is it! So it seems I'm lucky in coming to
you--no trouble in finding this _woman_ now, hey? Well, go on, this is
getting interesting; let's hear the rest! What are your propositions,
what if I refuse, hey?"
"My first proposition," said Arthur, rising to his feet with a cold
wicked light in his grey eyes, "is that you shall instantly take that
speech back and beg my pardon! If you refuse, by the living God, I'll
throttle you where you stand!"
For one wild moment all the savage animal in Dumphy rose, and he
instinctively made a step in the direction of Poinsett. Arthur did not
move. Then Mr. Dumphy's practical caution asserted itself. A physical
personal struggle with Arthur would bring in witnesses--witnesses
perhaps of something more than that personal struggle. If he were
victorious, Arthur, unless killed outright, would revenge himself by an
exposure. He sank back in his chair again. Had Arthur known the low
estimate placed upon his honour by Mr. Dumphy he would have been less
complacent in his victory.
"I didn't mean to suspect _you_," said Dumphy at last, with a forced
smile, "I hope you'll excuse me. I know you're my friend. But you're all
wrong about these papers; you are, Poinsett, I swear. I know if the fact
were known to outsiders it would look queer if not explained. But whose
business is it, anyway, legally, I mean?"
"No one's, unless Devarges has friends or heirs."
"He hadn't any."
"There's that wife!"
"Bah!--she was divorced!"
"Indeed! You told me on our last interview that she really was the widow
of Devarges."
"Never mind that now," said Dumphy, impatiently. "Look here! You know as
well as I do that no matter how many discoveries Devarges made, they
weren't worth a d--n if he hadn't done some work on them--improved or
opened them."
"But that is not the point at issue just now," said Arthur. "Nobody is
going to contest your claim or sue you for damages. But they might try
to convict you of a crime. They might say that breaking into the cairn
was burglary, and the taking of the papers theft."
"But how are they going to prove that?"
"No matter. Listen to me, and don't let us drift away from the main
point. The question that concerns you is this. An impostor sets up a
claim to be your wife; you and I know she is an impostor, and can prove
it. She knows that, but knows also that in attempting to prove it you
lay yourself open to some grave charges which she doubtless stands ready
to make."
"Well, then, the first thing to do is to find out _who_ she is, what she
knows, and what she wants, eh?" said Dumphy.
"No," said Arthur, quietly, "the first thing to do is to prove that your
wife is really dead, and to do that you must show that Grace Conroy was
alive when the body purporting to be hers, but which was really your
wife's, was discovered. Once establish _that_ fact and you destroy the
credibility of the Spanish reports, and you need not fear any revelation
from that source regarding the missing papers. And that is the only
source from which evidence against you can be procured. But when you
destroy the validity of that report, you of course destroy the
credibility of all concerned in making it. And as I was concerned in
making it, of course it won't do for you to put _me_ on the stand."
Notwithstanding Dumphy's disappointment, he could not help yielding to a
sudden respect for the superior rascal who thus cleverly slipped out of
responsibility. "But," added Arthur, coolly, "you'll have no difficulty
in establishing the fact of Grace's survival by others."
Dumphy thought at once of Ramirez. Here was a man who had seen and
conversed with Grace when she had, in the face of the Spanish Commander,
indignantly asserted her identity and the falsity of the report. No
witness could be more satisfactory and convincing. But to make use of
him he must first take Arthur into his confidence; must first expose the
conspiracy of Madame Devarges to personate Grace, and his own complicity
with the transaction. He hesitated. Nevertheless, he had been lately
tortured by a suspicion that the late Madame Devarges was in some way
connected with the later conspiracy against himself, and he longed to
avail himself of Arthur's superior sagacity, and after a second
reflection he concluded to do it. With the same practical conciseness of
statement that he had used in relating Colonel Starbottle's interview
with himself, he told the story of Madame Devarges' brief personation
of Grace Conroy, and its speedy and felicitous ending in Mrs. Conroy.
Arthur listened with unmistakable interest and a slowly brightening
colour. When Dumphy had concluded he sat for a moment apparently lost in
thought.
"Well?" at last said Dumphy, interrogatively and impatiently.
Arthur started. "Well," he said, rising, and replacing his hat with the
air of a man who had thoroughly exhausted his subject, "your frankness
has saved me a world of trouble."
"How?" said Dumphy.
"There is no necessity for looking any further for your alleged wife.
She exists at present as Mrs. Conroy, _alias_ Madame Devarges, _alias_
Grace Conroy. Ramirez is your witness. You couldn't have a more willing
one."
"Then my suspicions are correct."
"I don't know on what you based them. But here is a woman who has
unlimited power over men, particularly over one man, Gabriel!--who
alone, of all men but ourselves, knows the facts regarding your
desertion of your wife in Starvation Camp, her death, and the placing of
Dr. Devarges' private papers by me in the cairn. He knows, too, of your
knowledge of the existence of the cairn, its locality, and contents. He
knows this because he was in the cabin that night when the Doctor gave
me his dying injunctions regarding his property--the night that
you--excuse me, Dumphy, but nothing but frankness will save us now--the
night that you stood listening at the door and frightened Grace with
your wolfish face. Don't speak! she told me all about it! Your presence
there that night gained you the information that you have used so
profitably; it was your presence that fixed her wavering resolves and
sent her away with me."
Both men had become very pale and earnest. Arthur moved toward the door.
"I will see you to-morrow, when I will have matured some plan of
defence," he said, abstractedly. "We have"--he used the plural of
advocacy with a peculiar significance--"_We_ have a clever woman to
fight who may be more than our match. Meantime, remember that Ramirez is
our defence; he is our man, Dumphy, hold fast to him as you would to
your life. Good-day."
In another moment he was gone. As the door closed upon him a clerk
entered hastily from the outer office. "You said not to disturb you,
sir, and here is an important despatch waiting for you from Wingdam."
Mr. Dumphy took it mechanically, opened it, read the first line, and
then said hurriedly, "Run after that man, quick!--Stop! Wait a moment.
You need not go! There, that will do!"
The clerk hurriedly withdrew into the outer office. Mr. Dumphy went back
to his desk again, and once more devoured the following lines:--
"WINGDAM, 7th, 6 A.M.--Victor Ramirez murdered last night on
Conroy's Hill. Gabriel Conroy arrested. Mrs. Conroy missing.
Great excitement here; strong feeling against Gabriel. Wait
instructions.--FITCH."
At first Mr. Dumphy only heard as an echo beating in his brain, the
parting words of Arthur Poinsett, "Ramirez is our defence; hold fast to
him as you would your life." And now he was dead--gone; their only
witness; killed by Gabriel the plotter! What more was wanted to justify
his worst suspicions? What should they do? He must send after Poinsett
again; the plan of defence must be changed at once; to-morrow might be
too late. Stop!
One of his accusers in prison charged with a capital crime! The
other--the real murderer--for Dumphy made no doubt that Mrs. Conroy was
responsible for the deed--a fugitive from justice! What need of any
witness now? The blow that crippled these three conspirators had
liberated him! For a moment Mr. Dumphy was actually conscious of a
paroxysm of gratitude toward some indefinitely Supreme Being--a God of
special providence--special to himself! More than this, there was that
vague sentiment, common, I fear, to common humanity in such crises, that
this Providence was a tacit endorsement of himself. It was the triumph
of Virtue (Dumphy) over Vice (Conroy _et al._).
But there would be a trial, publicity, and the possible exposure of
certain things by a man whom danger might make reckless. And could he
count upon Mrs. Conroy's absence or neutrality? He was conscious that
her feeling for her husband was stronger than he had supposed, and she
might dare everything to save him. What had a woman of that kind to do
with such weakness? Why hadn't she managed it so as to kill Gabriel too?
There was an evident want of practical completeness in this special
Providence that, as a business man, Mr. Dumphy felt he could have
regulated. And then he was seized with an idea--a damnable
inspiration!--and set himself briskly to write. I regret to say that
despite the popular belief in the dramatic character of all villany, Mr.
Dumphy at this moment presented only the commonplace spectacle of an
absorbed man of business; no lurid light gleamed from his pale blue
eyes; no Satanic smile played around the corners of his smoothly shaven
mouth; no feverish exclamation stirred his moist, cool lips. He wrote
methodically and briskly, without deliberation or undue haste. When he
had written half-a-dozen letters he folded and sealed them, and without
summoning his clerk, took them himself into the outer office and thence
into the large counting-room. The news of the murder had evidently got
abroad; the clerks were congregated together, and the sound of eager,
interested voices ceased as the great man entered and stood among them.
"Fitch, you and Judson will take the quickest route to One Horse Gulch
to-night. Don't waste any time on the road or spare any expense. When
you get there deliver these letters, and take your orders from my
correspondents. Pick up all the details you can about this affair and
let me know. What's your balance at the Gulch, Mr. Peebles? never mind
the exact figures!"
"Larger than usual, sir, some heavy deposits!"
"Increase your balance then if there should be any d--d fools who
connect the Bank with this matter."
"I suppose," said Mr. Fitch, respectfully, "we're to look after your
foreman, Mr. Conroy, sir?"
"You are to take your orders from my correspondent, Mr. Fitch, and not
to interfere in any way with public sentiment. We have nothing to do
with the private acts of anybody. Justice will probably be done to
Conroy. It is time that these outrages upon the reputation of the
California miner should be stopped. When the fame of a whole community
is prejudiced and business injured by the rowdyism of a single ruffian,"
said Mr. Dumphy, raising his voice slightly as he discovered the
interested and absorbed presence of some of his most respectable
customers, "it is time that prompt action should be taken." In fact, he
would have left behind him a strong Roman flavour and a general
suggestion of Brutus, had he not unfortunately effected an anti-climax
by adding, "that's business, sir," as he retired to his private office.
CHAPTER IV.
MR. HAMLIN IS OFF WITH AN OLD LOVE.
Mr. Jack Hamlin did not lose much time on the road from Wingdam to
Sacramento. His rapid driving, his dust bespattered vehicle, and the
exhausted condition of his horse on arrival, excited but little comment
from those who knew his habits, and for other criticism he had a supreme
indifference. He was prudent enough, however, to leave his horse at a
stable on the outskirts, and having reconstructed his toilet at a
neighbouring hotel, he walked briskly toward the address given him by
Maxwell. When he reached the corner of the street and was within a few
paces of the massive shining door plate of Madame Eclair's _Pensionnat_,
he stopped with a sudden ejaculation, and after a moment's hesitation,
turned on his heel deliberately and began to retrace his steps.
To explain Mr. Hamlin's singular conduct I shall be obliged to disclose
a secret of his, which I would fain keep from the fair reader. On
receiving Olly's address from Maxwell, Mr. Hamlin had only cursorily
glanced at it, and it was only on arriving before the house that he
recognised to his horror that it was a boarding-school, with one of
whose impulsive inmates he had whiled away his idleness a few months
before in a heart-breaking but innocent flirtation, and a soul-subduing
but clandestine correspondence, much to the distaste of the correct
Principal. To have presented himself there in his proper person would be
to have been refused admittance or subjected to a suspicion that would
have kept Olly from his hands. For once, Mr. Hamlin severely regretted
his infelix reputation among the sex. But he did not turn his back on
his enterprise. He retraced his steps only to the main street, visited a
barber's shop and a jeweller's, and reappeared on the street again with
a pair of enormous green goggles and all traces of his long
distinguishing silken black moustache shaven from his lip. When it is
remembered that this rascal was somewhat vain of his personal
appearance, the reader will appreciate his earnestness and the extent of
his sacrifice.
Nevertheless, he was a little nervous as he was ushered into the formal
reception-room of the _Pensionnat_, and waited until his credentials,
countersigned by Maxwell, were submitted to Madame Eclair. Mr. Hamlin
had no fear of being detected by his real name; in the brief halcyon
days of his romance he had been known as Clarence Spifflington,--an
ingenious combination of the sentimental and humorous which suited his
fancy, and to some extent he felt expressed the character of his
affection. Fate was propitious; the servant returned saying that Miss
Conroy would be down in a moment, and Mr. Hamlin looked at his watch.
Every moment was precious; he was beginning to get impatient when the
door opened again and Olly slipped into the room.
She was a pretty child, with a peculiar boyish frankness of glance and
manner, and a refinement of feature that fascinated Mr. Hamlin, who,
fond as he was of all childhood, had certain masculine preferences for
good looks. She seemed to be struggling with a desire to laugh when she
entered, and when Jack turned towards her with extended hands she held
up her own warningly, and closing the door behind her cautiously, said,
in a demure whisper--
"She'll come down as soon as she can slip past Madame's door."
"Who?" asked Jack.
"Sophy."
"Who's Sophy?" asked Jack, seriously. He had never known the name of his
Dulcinea. In the dim epistolatory region of sentiment she had existed
only as "The Blue Moselle," so called from the cerulean hue of her
favourite raiment, and occasionally, in moments of familiar endearment,
as "Mosey."
"Come, now, pretend you don't know, will you?" said Olly, evading the
kiss which Jack always had ready for childhood. "If I was her, I
wouldn't have anything to say to you after that!" she added, with that
ostentatious chivalry of the sex towards each other, in the presence of
their common enemy. "Why, she saw you from the window when you first
came this morning, when you went back again and shaved off your
moustache; she knew you. And you don't know her! It's mean, ain't
it?--they'll grow again, won't they?"--Miss Olly referred to the
mustachios and not the affections!
Jack was astonished and alarmed. In his anxiety to evade or placate the
duenna, he had never thought of her charge--his sweetheart. Here was a
dilemma! "Oh yes!" said Jack hastily, with a well simulated expression
of arch affection, "Sophy--of course--that's my little game! But I've
got a note for you too, my dear," and he handed Olly the few lines that
Gabriel had hastily scrawled. He watched her keenly, almost
breathlessly, as she read them. To his utter bewilderment she laid the
note down indifferently and said, "That's like Gabe--the old simpleton!"
"But you're goin' to do what he says," asked Mr. Hamlin, "ain't you?"
"No," said Olly, promptly, "I ain't! Why, Lord! Mr. Hamlin, you don't
know that man; why, he does this sort o' thing every week!" Perceiving
Jack stare, she went on, "Why, only last week, didn't he send to me to
meet him out on the corner of the street, and he my own brother, instead
o' comin' here, ez he hez a right to do. Go to him at Wingdam? No! ketch
me!"
"But suppose he can't come," continued Mr. Hamlin.
"Why can't he come? I tell you, it's just foolishness and the meanest
kind o' bashfulness. Jes because there happened to be a young lady here
from San Francisco, Rosey Ringround, who was a little took with the old
fool. If he could come to Wingdam, why couldn't he come here,--that's
what I want to know?"
"Will you let me see that note?" asked Hamlin.
Olly handed him the note, with the remark, "He don't spell well--and he
won't let me teach him--the old Muggins!"
Hamlin took it and read as follows:--
"DEAR OLLY,--If it don't run a fowl uv yer lessings and the
Maddam's willin' and the young laddies, Brother Gab's waitin'
fer ye at Wingdam, so no more from your affeshtunate brother,
GAB."
Mr. Hamlin was in a quandary. It never had been part of his plan to let
Olly know the importance of her journey. Mr. Maxwell's injunctions to
bring her "quietly," his own fears of an outburst that might bring a
questioning and sympathetic school about his ears, and lastly, and not
the least potently, his own desire to enjoy Olly's company in the long
ride to One Horse Gulch without the preoccupation of grief, with his own
comfortable conviction that he could eventually bring Gabriel out of
this "fix" without Olly knowing anything about it, all this forbade his
telling her the truth. But here was a coil he had not thought of.
Howbeit, Mr. Hamlin was quick at expedients.
"Then you think Sophy can see me," he added, with a sudden interest.
"Of course she will!" said Olly, archly. "It was right smart in you to
get acquainted with Gabe and set him up to writing that, though it's
just like him. He's that soft that anybody could get round him. But
there she is now, Mr. Hamlin; that's her step on the stairs. And I
don't suppose you two hez any need of me now."
And she slipped out of the room, as demurely as she had entered, at the
same moment that a tall, slim, and somewhat sensational young lady in
blue came flying in.
I can, in justice to Mr. Hamlin, whose secrets have been perhaps
needlessly violated in the progress of this story, do no less than pass
over as sacred, and perhaps wholly irrelevant to the issue, the
interview that took place between himself and Miss Sophy. That he
succeeded in convincing that young woman of his unaltered loyalty, that
he explained his long silence as the result of a torturing doubt of the
permanence of her own affection, that his presence at that moment was
the successful culmination of a long-matured and desperate plan to see
her once more and learn the truth from her own lips, I am sure that no
member of my own disgraceful sex will question, and I trust no member of
a too fond and confiding sex will doubt. That some bitterness was felt
by Mr. Hamlin, who was conscious of certain irregularities during this
long interval, and some tears shed by Miss Sophy, who was equally
conscious of more or less aberration of her own magnetic instincts
during his absence, I think will be self-evident to the largely
comprehending reader. Howbeit, at the end of ten tender yet
tranquillising minutes Mr. Hamlin remarked, in low thrilling tones--
"By the aid of a few confiding friends, and playin' it rather low on
them, I got that note to the Conroy girl, but the game's up, and we
might as well pass in our checks now, if she goes back on us, and passes
out, which I reckon's her little game. If what you say is true, Sophy,
and you do sometimes look back to the past, and things is generally on
the square, you'll go for that Olly and fetch her, for if I go back
without that child, and throw up my hand, it's just tampering with the
holiest affections and playing it mighty rough on as white a man as ever
you saw, Sophy, to say nothing of your reputation, and everybody ready
to buck agin us who has ten cents to chip in on. You must make her go
back with me and put things on a specie basis."
In spite of the mixed character of Mr. Hamlin's metaphor, his eloquence
was so convincing and effective that Miss Sophy at once proceeded with
considerable indignation to insist upon Olly's withdrawing her refusal.
"If this is the way you are going to act, you horrid little thing! after
all that me and him's trusted you, I'd like to see the girl in school
that will ever tell _you_ anything again, that's all!" a threat so
appalling that Olly, who did not stop to consider that this confidence
was very recent and had been forced upon her, assented without further
delay, exhibited Gabriel's letter to Madame Eclair, and having received
that lady's gracious permission to visit her brother, was in half an
hour in company with Mr. Hamlin on the road.
CHAPTER V.
THE THREE VOICES.
Once free from the trammelling fascinations of Sophy and the more
dangerous espionage of Madame Eclair, and with the object of his mission
accomplished, Mr. Hamlin recovered his natural spirits, and became so
hilarious that Olly, who attributed this exaltation to his interview
with Sophy, felt constrained to make some disparaging remarks about that
young lady, partly by way of getting even with her for her recent
interference, and partly in obedience to some well known but
unexplained law of the sex. To her great surprise, however, Mr. Hamlin's
spirits were in no way damped, nor did he make any attempt to defend his
Lalage. Nevertheless, he listened attentively, and when she had
concluded he looked suddenly down upon her chip hat and thick yellow
tresses, and said--
"Ever been in the Southern country, Olly?"
"No," returned the child.
"Never down about San Antonio, visiting friends or relations?"
"No," said Olly, decidedly.
Mr. Hamlin was silent for some time, giving his exclusive attention to
his horse, who was evincing a disposition to "break" into a gallop. When
he had brought the animal back into a trot again he continued--
"_There's_ a woman! Olly."
"Down in San Antonio?" asked Olly.
Mr. Hamlin nodded.
"Purty?" continued the child.
"It ain't the word," responded Mr. Hamlin, seriously. "Purty ain't the
word."
"As purty as Sophy?" continued Olly, a little mischievously.
"Sophy be hanged!" Mr. Hamlin here quickly pulled up himself and horse,
both being inclined to an exuberance startling to the youth and sex of
the third party. "That is--I mean something in a different suit
entirely."
Here he again hesitated, doubtful of his slang.
"I see," quoth Olly; "diamonds--Sophy's in spades."
The gambler (in sudden and awful admiration), "Diamonds--you've just
struck it! but what do _you_ know 'bout cards?"
Olly, _pomposaménte_, "Everything! Tell our fortunes by 'em--we girls!
I'm in hearts--Sophy's in spades--you're in clubs! Do you know," in a
thrilling whisper, "only last night I had a letter, a journey, a death,
and a gentleman in clubs, dark complected--that's you."
Mr. Hamlin--a good deal more at ease through this revelation of the
universal power of the four suits--"Speakin' of women, I suppose down
there (indicating the school) you occasionally hear of angels. What's
their general complexion?"
Olly, dubiously, "In the pictures?"
Hamlin, "Yes;" with a leading question, "sorter dark complected
sometimes, hey?"
Olly, positively, "Never! always white."
Jack, "Always white?"
Olly, "Yes, and flabby!"
They rode along for some time silently. Presently Mr. Hamlin broke into
a song, a popular song, one verse of which Olly supplied with such
deftness of execution and melodiousness of pipe that Mr. Hamlin
instantly suggested a duet, and so over the dead and barren wastes of
the Sacramento plains they fell to singing, often barbarously, sometimes
melodiously, but never self-consciously, wherein, I take it, they
approximated to the birds and better class of poets, so that rough
teamsters, rude packers, and weary wayfarers were often touched, as with
the birds and poets aforesaid, to admiration and tenderness; and when
they stopped for supper at a wayside station, and Jack Hamlin displayed
that readiness of resource, audacity of manner and address, and perfect
and natural obliviousness to the criticism of propriety or the
limitations of precedent, and when, moreover, the results of all this
was a much better supper than perhaps a more reputable companion could
have procured, she thought she had never known a more engaging person
than this Knave of Clubs.
When they were fairly on the road again, Olly began to exhibit some
curiosity regarding her brother, and asked some few questions about
Gabriel's family, which disclosed the fact that Jack's acquaintance with
Gabriel was comparatively recent.
"Then you never saw July at all?" asked Olly.
"July," queried Jack, reflectively; "what's she like?"
"I don't know whether she's a heart or a spade," said Olly, as
thoughtfully.
Jack was silent for some moments, and then after a pause, to Olly's
intense astonishment, proceeded to sketch, in a few vigorous phrases,
the external characteristics of Mrs. Conroy.
"Why, you said you never saw her!" ejaculated Olly.
"No more I did," responded the gambler, with a quick laugh; "this is
only a little bluff."
It had grown cold with the brief twilight and the coming on of night.
For some time the black, unchanging outlines of the distant Coast Range
were sharply _silhouetted_ against a pale, ashen sky, that at last faded
utterly, leaving a few stars behind as emblems of the burnt-out sunset.
The red road presently lost its calm and even outline in the swiftly
gathering shadows, or to Olly's fancy was stopped by shapeless masses of
rock or giant-like trunks of trees that in turn seemed to give way
before the skilful hand and persistent will of her driver. At times a
chill exhalation from a roadside ditch came to Olly like the damp breath
of an open grave, and the child shivered even beneath the thick
travelling shawl of Mr. Hamlin, with which she was enwrapped. Whereat
Jack at once produced a flask and prevailed upon Olly to drink something
that set her coughing, but which that astute and experienced child at
once recognised as whisky. Mr. Hamlin, to her surprise, however, did not
himself partake, a fact which she at once pointed out to him.
"At an early age, Olly," said Mr. Hamlin, with infinite gravity, "I
promised an infirm and aged relative never to indulge in spirituous
liquors, except on a physician's prescription. I carry this flask
subject to the doctor's orders. Never having ordered me to drink any, I
don't."
As it was too dark for the child to observe Mr. Hamlin's eyes, which,
after the fashion of her sex, she consulted much oftener than his speech
for his real meaning, and was as often deceived, she said nothing, and
Mr. Hamlin relapsed into silence. At the end of five minutes he said--
"_She_ was a woman, Olly--you bet!"
Olly, with great tact and discernment, instantly referring back to Mr.
Hamlin's discourse of an hour before, queried, "That girl in the
Southern country?"
"Yes," said Mr. Hamlin.
"Tell me all about her," said Olly--"all you know."
"That ain't much," mused Hamlin, with a slight sigh. "Ah, Olly, _she_
could sing!"
"With the piano?" said Olly, a little superciliously.
"With the organ," said Hamlin.
Olly, whose sole idea of this instrument was of the itinerant barrel
variety, yawned slightly, and with a very perceptible lack of interest
said that she hoped she would see her some time when she came up that
way and was "going 'round."
Mr. Hamlin did not laugh, but after a few minutes' rapid driving, began
to explain to Olly with great earnestness the character of a church
organ.
"I used to play once, Olly, in a church. They did say that I used
sometimes to fetch that congregation, jest snatch 'em bald-headed, Olly,
but it's a long time ago! There was one hymn in particular that I used
to run on consid'rable--one o' them Masses o' Mozart--one that I heard
_her_ sing, Olly; it went something like this;" and Jack proceeded to
lift his voice in the praise of Our Lady of Sorrows, with a serene
unconsciousness to his surroundings, and utter absorption in his theme
that would have become the most enthusiastic acolyte. The springs
creaked, the wheels rattled, the mare broke, plunged, and recovered
herself, the slight vehicle swayed from side to side, Olly's hat bruised
and flattened itself against his shoulder, and still Mr. Hamlin sang.
When he had finished he looked down at Olly. She was asleep!
Jack was an artist and an enthusiast, but not unreasonable nor
unforgiving. "It's the whisky," he murmured to himself, in an apologetic
recitation to the air he had just been singing. He changed the reins to
his other hand with infinite caution and gentleness, slowly passed his
disengaged arm round the swaying little figure, until he had drawn the
chip hat and the golden tresses down upon his breast and shoulder. In
this attitude, scarcely moving a muscle lest he should waken the
sleeping child, at midnight he came upon the twinkling lights of
Fiddletown. Here he procured a fresh horse, dispensing with an ostler
and harnessing the animal himself, with such noiseless skill and
quickness that Olly, propped up in the buggy with pillows and blankets
borrowed from the Fiddletown hostelry, slept through it all, nor wakened
even after they were again upon the road, and had begun the long ascent
of the Wingdam turnpike.
It wanted but an hour of daybreak when he reached the summit, and even
then he only slackened his pace when his wheels sank to their hubs in
the beaten dust of the stage road. The darkness of that early hour was
intensified by the gloom of the heavy pine woods through which the red
road threaded its difficult and devious way. It was very still. Hamlin
could hardly hear the dead, muffled plunge of his own horse in the dusty
track before him, and yet once or twice he stopped to listen. His quick
ear detected the sound of voices and the jingle of Mexican spurs,
apparently approaching behind him. Mr. Hamlin knew that he had not
passed any horseman and was for a moment puzzled. But then he recalled
the fact that a few hundred yards beyond, the road was intersected by
the "cut-off" to One Horse Gulch, which, after running parallel with the
Wingdam turnpike for half a mile, crossed it in the forest. The voices
were on that road going the same way. Mr. Hamlin pushed on his horse to
the crossing, and hidden by the darkness and the trunks of the giant
pines, pulled up to let the strangers precede him. In a few moments the
voices were abreast of him and stationary. The horsemen had apparently
halted.
"Here seems to be a road," said a voice quite audibly.
"All right, then," returned another, "it's the 'cut-off. We'll save an
hour, sure."
A third voice here struck in potentially, "Keep the stage road. If Joe
Hall gets wind of what's up, he'll run his man down to Sacramento for
safe keeping. If he does he'll take this road--it's the only
one--sabe?--we can't miss him!"
Jack Hamlin leaned forward breathlessly in his seat.
"But it's an hour longer this way," growled the second voice. "The boys
will wait," responded the previous speaker. There was a laugh, a
jingling of spurs, and the invisible procession moved slowly forward in
the darkness.
Mr. Hamlin did not stir a muscle until the voices failed before him in
the distance. Then he cast a quick glance at the child; she still slept
quietly, undisturbed by the halt or those ominous voices which had
brought so sudden a colour into her companion's cheek and so baleful a
light in his dark eyes. Yet for a moment Mr. Hamlin hesitated. To go
forward to Wingdam now would necessitate his following cautiously in
the rear of the Lynchers, and so prevent his giving a timely alarm. To
strike across to One Horse Gulch by the "cut-off" would lose him the
chance of meeting the Sheriff and his prisoner, had they been forewarned
and were escaping in time. But for the impediment of the unconscious
little figure beside him, he would have risked a dash through the party
ahead of him. But that was not to be thought of now. He must follow them
to Wingdam, leave the child, and trust to luck to reach One Horse Gulch
before them. If they delayed a moment at Wingdam it could be done. A
feeling of yearning tenderness and pity succeeded the slight impatience
with which he had a moment before regarded his encumbering charge. He
held her in his arms, scarcely daring to breathe lest he should waken
her--hoping that she might sleep until they reached Wingdam, and that
leaving her with his faithful henchman "Pete," he might get away before
she was aroused to embarrassing inquiry. Mr. Hamlin had a man's dread of
scenes with even so small a specimen of the sex, and for once in his
life he felt doubtful of his own readiness, and feared lest in his
excitement he might reveal the imminent danger of her brother. Perhaps
he was never before so conscious of that danger; perhaps he was never
before so interested in the life of any one. He began to see things with
Olly's eyes--to look upon events with reference to _her_ feelings rather
than his own; if she had sobbed and cried this sympathetic rascal really
believed that he would have cried too. Such was the unconscious and
sincere flattery of admiration. He was relieved, when with the first
streaks of dawn, his mare wearily clattered over the scattered river
pebbles and "tailings" that paved the outskirts of Wingdam. He was still
more relieved when the Three Voices of the Night, now faintly visible as
three armed horsemen, drew up before the verandah of the Wingdam Hotel,
dismounted, and passed into the bar-room. And he was perfectly content,
when a moment later he lifted the still sleeping Olly in his arms and
bore her swiftly yet cautiously to his room. To awaken the sleeping Pete
on the floor above, and drag him half-dressed and bewildered into the
presence of the unconscious child, as she lay on Jack Hamlin's own bed,
half buried in a heap of shawls and rugs, was only the work of another
moment.
"Why, Mars Jack! Bress de Lord--it's a chile!" said Pete, recoiling in
sacred awe and astonishment.
"Hold your jaw!" said Jack, in a fierce whisper, "you'll waken her!
Listen to me, you chattering idiot. Don't waken her, if you want to keep
the bones in your creaking old skeleton whole enough for the doctors to
buy. Let her sleep as long as she can. If she wakes up and asks after
me, tell her I'm gone for her brother. Do you hear? Give her anything
she asks for--except--the truth! What are you doing, you old fool?"
Pete was carefully removing the mountain of shawls and blankets that
Jack had piled upon Olly. "'Fore God, Mars Jack--you's smuddering dat
chile!" was his only response. Nevertheless Jack was satisfied with a
certain vague tenderness in his manipulation, and said curtly, "Get me a
horse!"
"It ain't to be did, Mars Jack; de stables is all gone--cleaned! Dey's a
rush over to One Horse Gulch, all day!"
"There are three horses at the door," said Jack, with wicked
significance.
"For de love of God, Mars Jack, don't ye do dat!" ejaculated Pete, in
unfeigned and tremulous alarm. "Dey don't take dem kind o' jokes yer
worth a cent--dey'd be doin' somefin' awful to ye, sah--shuah's yer
born!"
But Jack, with the child lying there peaceably in his own bed, and the
Three Voices growing husky in the bar-room below, regained all his old
audacity. "I haven't made up my mind," continued Jack, coolly, "which of
the three I'll take, but you'll find out from the owner when I do! Tell
him that Mr. Jack Hamlin left his compliments and a mare and buggy for
him. You can say that if he keeps the mare from breaking and gives her
her head down hill, she can do her mile inside of 2.45. Hush! not a
word! Bye-bye." He turned, lifted the shawl from the fresh cheek of the
sleeping Olly, kissed her, and shaking his fist at Pete, vanished.
For a few moments the negro listened breathlessly. And then there came
the sharp, quick clatter of hoofs from the rocky road below, and he sank
dejectedly at the foot of the bed. "He's gone--done it! Lord save us!
but it's a hangin' matter yer!" And even as he spoke Mr. Jack Hamlin,
mounted on the fleet mustang that had been ridden by the Potential
Voice, with his audacious face against the red sunrise and his right
shoulder squarely advanced, was butting away the morning mists that
rolled slowly along the river road to One Horse Gulch.
CHAPTER VI.
MR. DUMPHY IS PERPLEXED BY A MOVEMENT IN REAL ESTATE.
Mr. Dumphy's confidence in himself was so greatly restored that several
business enterprises of great pith and moment, whose currents for the
past few days had been turned awry, and so "lost the name of action,"
were taken up by him with great vigour and corresponding joy to the
humbler business associates who had asked him just to lend his name to
that project, and make "a big thing of it." He had just given his royal
sanction and a cheque to an Association for the Encouragement of
Immigration, by the distribution through the sister States of one
million seductive pamphlets, setting forth the various resources and
advantages of California for the farmer, and proving that one hundred
and fifty dollars spent for a passage thither was equal to the price of
a farm; he had also assisted in sending the eloquent Mr. Blowhard and
the persuasive Mr. Windygust to present these facts orally to the
benighted dwellers of the East, and had secured the services of two
eminent Californian statisticians to demonstrate the fact, that more
people were killed by lightning and frozen to death in the streets of
New York in a single year than were ever killed by railroad accidents or
human violence in California during the past three centuries; he had
that day conceived the "truly magnificent plan" of bringing the waters
of Lake Tahoe to San Francisco by ditches, thereby enabling the citizens
to keep the turf in their door-yards green through the summer. He had
started two banks, a stage line, and a watering place, whose climate and
springs were declared healthful by edict, and were aggressively
advertised; and he had just projected a small suburban town that should
bear his name. He had returned from this place in high spirits with a
company of friends in the morning after this interview with Poinsett.
There was certainly no trace of the depression of that day in his
manner.
It was a foggy morning, following a clear, still night--an atmospheric
condition not unusual at that season of the year to attract Mr. Dumphy's
attention, yet he was conscious on reaching his office of an undue
oppressiveness in the air that indisposed him to exertion, and caused
him to remove his coat and cravat. Then he fell to work upon his
morning's mail, and speedily forgot the weather. There was a letter
from Mrs. Sepulvida, disclosing the fact that, owing to the sudden and
unaccountable drying up of the springs on the lower plains, large
numbers of her cattle had died of thirst and were still perishing. This
was of serious import to Mr. Dumphy, who had advanced money on this
perishable stock, and he instantly made a memorandum to check this
sudden freak of Nature, which he at once attributed to feminine
carelessness of management. Further on Mrs. Sepulvida inquired
particularly as to the condition of the Conroy mine, and displayed a
disposition characteristic of her sex, to realise at once on her
investment. Her letter ended thus: "But I shall probably see you in San
Francisco. Pepe says that this morning the markings on the beach showed
the rise of a tide or wave during the night higher than any ever known
since one thousand eight hundred. I do not feel safe so near the beach,
and shall rebuild in the spring." Mr. Dumphy smiled grimly to himself.
He had at one time envied Poinsett. But here was the woman he was
engaged to marry, careless, improvident, with a vast estate, and on the
eve of financial disaster through her carelessness, and yet actually
about to take a journey of two hundred miles because of some foolish,
womanish whim or superstition. It would be a fine thing if this man, to
whom good fortune fell without any effort on his part--this easy,
elegant supercilious Arthur Poinsett, who was even indifferent to that
good fortune, should find himself tricked and deceived! should have to
apply to him, Dumphy, for advice and assistance! And this, too, after
his own advice and assistance regarding the claims of Colonel
Starbottle's client had been futile. The revenge would be complete. Mr.
Dumphy rubbed his hands in prospective satisfaction.
When, a few moments later, Colonel Starbottle's card was put into his
hand Mr. Dumphy's satisfaction was complete. This was the day that the
gallant Colonel was to call for an answer; it was evident that Arthur
had not seen him, nor had he made the discovery of Starbottle's unknown
client. The opportunity of vanquishing this man without the aid or even
knowledge of Poinsett was now before him. By way of preparing himself
for the encounter, as well as punishing the Colonel, he purposely
delayed the interview, and for full five minutes kept his visitor
cooling his heels in the outer office.
He was seated at his desk, ostentatiously preoccupied, when Colonel
Starbottle was at last admitted. He did not raise his head when the door
opened, nor in fact until the Colonel, stepping lightly forward, walked
to Dumphy's side, and deliberately unhooking his cane from its
accustomed rest on his arm, laid it, pronouncedly, on the desk before
him. The Colonel's face was empurpled, the Colonel's chest was
efflorescent and bursting, the Colonel had the general effect of being
about to boil over the top button of his coat, but his manner was
jauntily and daintily precise.
"One moment!--a single moment, sir!" he said, with husky politeness.
"Before proceeding to business--er--we will devote a single moment to
the necessary explanations of--er--er--a gentleman. The kyard now lying
before you, sir, was handed ten minutes ago to one of your subordinates.
I wish to inquire, sir, if it was then delivered to you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Dumphy, impatiently.
Colonel Starbottle leaned over Mr. Dumphy's desk and coolly rung his
bell. Mr. Dumphy's clerk instantly appeared at the door. "I wish--" said
the Colonel, addressing himself to the astounded employé as he stood
loftily over Mr. Dumphy's chair--"I have--er--in fact sent for you, to
withdraw the offensive epithets I addressed to you, and the threats--of
er--of er--personal violence! The offence--is not, yours--but--er--rests
with your employer, for whose apology I am--er--now waiting.
Nevertheless I am ready, sir, to hold myself at your service--that
is--er--of course--after my responsibility--er--with your
master--er--ceases!"
Mr. Dumphy, who in the presence of Colonel Starbottle felt his former
awkwardness return, signed with a forced smile to his embarrassed clerk
to withdraw, and said hastily, but with an assumption of easy
familiarity, "Sorry, Colonel, sorry, but I was very busy, and am now. No
offence. All a mistake, you know! business man and business hours," and
Mr. Dumphy leaned back in his chair, and emitted his rare cachinnatory
bark.
"Glad to hear it, sir, I accept your apology," said the Colonel,
recovering his good humour and his profanity together, "hang me, if I
didn't think it was another affair like that I had with old Maje
Tolliver, of Georgia. Called on him in Washington in '48 during session.
Boy took up my kyard. Waited ten minutes, no reply! Then sent friend,
poor Jeff Boomerang, dead now, killed in New Orleans by Ben Pastor--with
challenge. Hang me, sir, after the second shot, Maje sends for me, lying
thar with hole in both lungs, gasping for breath. 'It's all a blunder,
Star,' he says, 'boy never brought kyard. Horsewhip the nigger for me,
Star, for I reckon I won't live to do it,' and died like a gentleman,
blank me!"
"What have you got to propose?" said Mr. Dumphy, hastily, seeing an
opportunity to stop the flow of the Colonel's recollections.
"According to my memory, at our last interview over the social glass in
your own house, I think something was said of a proposition coming from
you. That is--er," continued the Colonel, loftily, "I hold myself
responsible for the mistake, if any."
It had been Mr. Dumphy's first intention to assume the roughly
offensive; to curtly inform Colonel Starbottle of the flight of his
confederate, and dare him to do his worst. But for certain vague reasons
he changed his plan of tactics. He drew his chair closer to the Colonel,
and clapping his hand familiarly on his shoulder, began--
"You're a man of the world, Starbottle, so am I. _Sabe?_ You're a
gentleman--so am I," he continued, hastily. "But I'm a business man, and
you're not. _Sabe?_ Let's understand each other. No offence, you know,
but in the way of business. This woman, claiming to be my wife, don't
exist--it's all right, you know, I understand. I don't blame _you_, but
you've been deceived, and all that sort of thing. I've got the proofs.
Now as a man of the world and a gentleman and a business man, when I say
the game's up! you'll understand me. Look at that--there!" He thrust
into Starbottle's hand the telegram of the preceding day, "There! the
man's hung by this time--lynched! The woman's gone!"
Colonel Starbottle read the telegram without any perceptible dismay or
astonishment.
"Conroy! Conroy!--don't know the man. There was a McConroy, of St. Jo,
but I don't think it's the same. No, sir! This ain't like him, sir!
Don't seem to be a duel, unless he'd posted the man to kill on
sight--murder's an ugly word to use to gentlemen. D--n me, sir, I don't
know but he could hold the man responsible who sent that despatch. It's
offensive, sir--very!"
"And you don't know Mrs. Conroy?" continued Mr. Dumphy, fixing his eyes
on Colonel Starbottle's face.
"Mrs. Conroy! The wife of the superintendent--one of the most beautiful
women! Good Ged, sir, I do! And I'm dev'lish sorry for her. But what's
this got to do with our affair? Oh! I see, Ged!"--the Colonel suddenly
chuckled, drew out his handkerchief, and waved it in the air with
deprecatory gallantry, "gossip, sir, all gossip. People will talk! A
fine woman! Blank me, if she was inclined to show some attention to
Colonel Starbottle--Ged, sir, it was no more than other women have. You
comprehend, Dumphy? Ged, sir, so the story's got round, eh?--husband's
jealous--killed wrong man! Folks think she's run off with Colonel
Starbottle, ha! ha! No, sir," he continued, suddenly dropping into an
attitude of dignified severity. "You can say that Colonel Starbottle
branded the story as a lie, sir! That whatever might have been the
foolish indiscretion of a susceptible sex, Colonel Starbottle will
defend the reputation of that lady, sir, with his life--with his life!"
Absurd and ridiculous as this sudden diversion of Colonel Starbottle
from the point at issue had become, Dumphy could not doubt his
sincerity, nor the now self-evident fact that Mrs. Conroy was _not_ his
visitor's mysterious client! Mr. Dumphy felt that his suddenly built up
theory was demolished and his hope with it. He was still at the mercy of
this conceited braggart and the invisible power behind him--whoever or
whatever it might be. Mr. Dumphy was not inclined to superstition, but
he began to experience a strange awe of his unknown persecutor, and
resolved at any risk to discover who it was. Could it be really his
wife?--had not the supercilious Poinsett been himself tricked--or was he
not now trying to trick him, Dumphy? Couldn't Starbottle be bribed to
expose at least the name of his client? He would try it.
"I said just now you had been deceived in this woman who represents
herself to be my wife. I find I have been mistaken in the person, who I
believe imposed upon you, and it is possible that I may be otherwise
wrong. My wife may be alive. I am willing to admit it. Bring her here
to-morrow and I will accept it as a fact."
"You forget that she refuses to see you again," said Colonel Starbottle,
"until she has established her claim by process of law."
"That's so! that's all right, old fellow; _we_ understand each other.
Now, suppose that we business men--as a business maxim, you know--always
prefer to deal with principals. Now suppose we even go so far as to do
that and yet pay an agent's commission, perhaps--you understand me--even
a _bonus_. Good! That's business! You understand that as a gentleman and
a man of the world. Now, I say, bring me your principal--fetch along
that woman, and I'll make it all right with _you_. Stop! I know what
you're going to say; you're bound by honour and all that--I understand
your position as a gentleman, and respect it. Then let me know where I
can find her! Understand--you sha'n't be compromised as bringing about
the interview in any way. I'll see that you're protected in your
commissions from your client; and for my part--if a cheque for five
thousand dollars will satisfy you of my desire to do the right thing in
this matter, it's at your service."
The Colonel rose to his feet and applied himself apparently to the
single and silent inflation of his chest, for the space of a minute.
When the upper buttons of his coat seemed to be on the point of flying
off with a report, he suddenly extended his hand and grasped Dumphy's
with fervour. "Permit me," he said, in a voice husky with emotion, "to
congratulate myself on dealing with a gentleman and a man of honour.
Your sentiments, sir, I don't care if I do say it, do you credit! I am
proud, sir," continued the Colonel, warmly, "to have made your
acquaintance! But I regret to say, sir, that I cannot give you the
information you require. I do not myself know the name or address of my
client."
The look of half-contemptuous satisfaction which had irradiated Dumphy's
face at the beginning of this speech, changed to one of angry suspicion
at its close. "That's a d----d queer oversight of yours," he ejaculated,
with an expression as nearly insulting as he dared to make it. Colonel
Starbottle did not apparently notice the manner of his speech, but
drawing his chair close beside Dumphy, he laid his hand upon his arm.
"Your confidence as a man of honour and a gentleman," he began, "demands
equal confidence and frankness on my part, and Culp. Starbottle of
Virginia is not the man to withhold it! When I state that I do _not_
know the name and address of my client, I believe, sir, there is no one
now living, who will--er--er--require or--er--deem it necessary for me
to repeat the assertion! Certainly not, sir," added the Colonel, lightly
waving his hand, "the gentleman who has just honoured me with his
confidence and invited mine--I thank you, sir," he continued, as Mr.
Dumphy made a hasty motion of assent, "and will go on."
"It is not necessary for me to name the party who first put me in
possession of the facts. You will take my word as a gentleman--er--that
it is some one unknown to you, of unimportant position, though of strict
respectability, and one who acted only as the agent of my real client.
When the case was handed over to me there was also put into my
possession a sealed envelope containing the name of my client and
principal witness. My injunctions were not to open it until all
negotiations had failed and it was necessary to institute legal
proceedings. That envelope I have here. You perceive it is unopened!"
Mr. Dumphy unconsciously reached out his hand. With a gesture of polite
deprecation Colonel Starbottle evaded it, and placing the letter on the
table before him, continued, "It is unnecessary to say that--er--there
being in my judgment no immediate necessity for the beginning of a
suit--the injunctions still restrain me, and I shall not open the
letter. If, however, I accidentally mislay it on this table and it is
returned to me to-morrow, sealed as before, I believe, sir, as a
gentleman and a man of honour I violate no pledge."
"I see," said Mr. Dumphy, with a short laugh.
"Excuse me, if I venture to require another condition, merely as a form
among men of honour. Write as I dictate." Mr. Dumphy took up a pen.
Colonel Starbottle placed one hand on his honourable breast and began
slowly and meditatively to pace the length of the room with the air of a
second measuring the distance for his principal. "Are you ready?"
"Go on," said Dumphy, impatiently.
"I hereby pledge myself--er--er--that in the event of any disclosure by
me--er--of confidential communications from Colonel Starbottle to me, I
shall hold myself ready to afford him the usual honourable
satisfaction--er--common among gentlemen, at such times or places, and
with such weapons as he may choose, without further formality of
challenge, and that--er--er--failing in that I do thereby proclaim
myself, without posting, a liar, poltroon, and dastard."
In the full pre-occupation of his dignified composition, and possibly
from an inability to look down over the increased exaggeration of his
swelling breast, Colonel Starbottle did not observe the contemptuous
smile which curled the lip of his amanuensis. Howbeit Mr. Dumphy signed
the document and handed it to him. Colonel Starbottle put it in his
pocket. Nevertheless he lingered by Mr. Dumphy's side.
"The--er--er--cheque," said the Colonel, with a slight cough, "had
better be to your order, endorsed by you--to spare any criticism
hereafter."
Mr. Dumphy hesitated a moment. He would have preferred as a matter of
business to have first known the contents of the envelope, but with a
slight smile he dashed off the cheque and handed it to the Colonel.
"If--er--it would not be too much trouble," said the Colonel, jauntily,
"for the same reason just mentioned, would you give that--er--piece of
paper to one of your clerks to draw the money for me?"
Mr. Dumphy impatiently, with his eyes on the envelope, rang his bell and
handed the cheque to the clerk, while Colonel Starbottle, with an air of
abstraction, walked discreetly to the window.
For the rest of Colonel Starbottle's life he never ceased to deplore
this last act of caution, and regret that he had not put the cheque in
his pocket. For as he walked to the window the floor suddenly appeared
to rise beneath his feet and as suddenly sank again, and he was thrown
violently against the mantelpiece. He felt sick and giddy. With a
terrible apprehension of apoplexy in his whirling brain, he turned
toward his companion, who had risen from his seat and was supporting
himself by his swinging desk with a panic-stricken face and a pallor
equal to his own. In another moment a bookcase toppled with a crash to
the floor, a loud outcry arose from the outer offices, and amidst the
sounds of rushing feet, the breaking of glass, and the creaking of
timber, the two men dashed with a common instinct to the door. It opened
two inches and remained fixed. With the howl of a caged wild beast
Dumphy threw himself against the rattling glass of the window that
opened on the level of the street. In another instant Colonel Starbottle
was beside him on the side-walk, and the next they were separated,
unconsciously, uncaringly, as if they had been the merest strangers in
contact in a crowd. The business that had brought them together, the
unfinished, incomplete, absorbing interests of a moment ago were
forgotten--were buried in the oblivion of another existence, which had
no sympathy with this, whose only instinct was to fly--where, they knew
not!
The middle of the broad street was filled with a crowd of breathless,
pallid, death-stricken men who had lost all sense but the common
instinct of animals. There were hysterical men, who laughed loudly
without a cause, and talked incessantly of what they knew not. There
were dumb, paralysed men, who stood helplessly and hopelessly beneath
cornices and chimneys that toppled over and crushed them. There were
automatic men, who flying, carried with them the work on which they were
engaged--one whose hands were full of bills and papers, another who held
his ledger under his arm. There were men who had forgotten the ordinary
instincts of decency--some half-dressed. There were men who rushed from
the fear of death into its presence; two were picked up, one who had
jumped through a skylight, another who had blindly leaped from a
fourth-story window. There were brave men who trembled like children;
there was one whose life had been spent in scenes of daring and danger,
who cowered paralysed in the corner of the room from which a few inches
of plastering had fallen. There were hopeful men who believed that the
danger was over, and having passed, would, by some mysterious law, never
recur; there were others who shook their heads and said that the next
shock would be fatal. There were crowds around the dust that arose from
fallen chimneys and cornices, around runaway horses that had dashed as
madly as their drivers against lamp-posts, around telegraph and
newspaper offices eager to know the extent of the disaster. Along the
remoter avenues and cross-streets dwellings were deserted, people sat
upon their doorsteps or in chairs upon the sidewalks, fearful of the
houses they had built with their own hands, and doubtful even of this
blue arch above them that smiled so deceitfully; of those far-reaching
fields beyond, which they had cut into lots and bartered and sold, and
which now seemed to suddenly rise against them, or slip and wither away
from their very feet. It seemed so outrageous that this dull, patient
earth, whose homeliness they had adorned and improved, and which,
whatever their other fortune or vicissitudes, at least had been their
sure inheritance, should have become so faithless. Small wonder that the
owner of a little house, which had sunk on the reclaimed water front,
stooped in the speechless and solemn absurdity of his wrath to shake his
clenched fist in the face of the Great Mother.
The real damage to life and property had been so slight and in such
pronounced contrast to the prevailing terror, that half an hour later
only a sense of the ludicrous remained with the greater masses of the
people. Mr. Dumphy, like all practical, unimaginative men, was among the
first to recover his presence of mind with the passing of the immediate
danger. People took confidence when this great man, who had so much to
lose, after sharply remanding his clerks and everybody else back to
business, re-entered his office. He strode at once to his desk. But the
envelope was gone! He looked hurriedly among his papers--on the
floor--by the broken window--but in vain.
Mr. Dumphy instantly rang his bell. The clerk appeared.
"Was that draft paid?"
"No, sir; we were counting the money when"----
"Stop it!--return the draft to me."
The young man was confiding to his confrères his suspicions of a
probable "run" on the bank as indicated by Mr. Dumphy's caution, when he
was again summoned by Mr. Dumphy.
"Go to Mr. Poinsett's office and ask him to come here at once."
In a few moments the clerk returned out of breath.
"Mr. Poinsett left a quarter of an hour ago, sir, for San Antonio."
"San Antonio?"
"Yes, sir--they say there's bad news from the Mission."
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH BOTH JUSTICE AND THE HEAVENS FALL.
The day following the discovery of the murder of Victor Ramirez was one
of the intensest excitement in One Horse Gulch. It was not that killing
was rare in that pastoral community--foul murder had been done there
upon the bodies of various citizens of more or less respectability, and
the victim in the present instance was a stranger and a man who awakened
no personal sympathy; but the suspicion that swiftly and instantly
attached to two such important people as Mr. and Mrs. Conroy, already
objects of severe criticism, was sufficient to exalt this particular
crime above all others in thrilling interest. For two days business was
practically suspended.
The discovery of the murder was made by Sal, who stumbled upon the body
of the unfortunate Victor early the next morning during a walk on
Conroy's Hill, manifestly in search of the missing man, who had not
returned to the hotel that night. A few flippant souls, misunderstanding
Miss Clark's interest in the stranger, asserted that he had committed
suicide to escape her attentions, but all jocular hypothesis ceased when
it became known that Gabriel and his wife had fled. Then came the report
that Gabriel had been seen by a passing miner early in the day "shoving"
the stranger along the trail, with his hand on his collar, and
exchanging severe words. Then the willing testimony of Miss Clark that
she had seen Mrs. Conroy in secret converse with Victor before the
murder; then the unwilling evidence of the Chinaman who had overtaken
Gabriel with the letter, but who heard the sounds of quarrelling and
cries for help in the bushes after his departure; but this evidence was
excluded from the inquest, by virtue of the famous Californian law that
a Pagan was of necessity a liar, and that truth only resided in the
breast of the Christian Caucasian, and was excluded from the general
public for its incompatibility with Gabriel's subsequent flight, and the
fact that the Chinaman, being a fool, was probably mistaken in the hour.
Then there was the testimony of the tunnel-men to Gabriel's appearance
on the hill that night. There was only one important proof not submitted
to the public or the authorities--Mrs. Conroy's note--picked up by Sal,
handed to Mrs. Markle, and given by her to Lawyer Maxwell. The knowledge
of this document was restricted to the few already known to the reader.
A dozen or more theories of the motive of the deed at different hours of
the day occupied and disturbed the public mind. That Gabriel had come
upon a lover of his wife in the act of eloping with her, and had slain
him out of hand, was the first. That Gabriel had decoyed the man to an
interview by simulating his wife's handwriting, and then worked his
revenge on his body, was accepted later as showing the necessary
deliberation to constitute murder. That Gabriel and his wife had
conjointly taken this method to rid themselves of a former lover who
threatened exposure, was a still later theory. Towards evening, when One
Horse Gulch had really leisure to put its heads together, it was
generally understood that Gabriel and Mrs. Conroy had put out of their
way a dangerous and necessarily rightful claimant to that mine which
Gabriel had pretended to discover. This opinion was for some time--say
two hours--the favourite one, agreeing as it did with the popular
opinion of Gabriel's inability to discover a mine himself, and was only
modified by another theory that Victor was not the real claimant, but a
dangerous witness that the Conroys had found it necessary to dispose of.
And when, possibly from some unguarded expression of Lawyer Maxwell, it
was reported that Gabriel Conroy was an impostor under an assumed name,
all further speculation was deemed unnecessary. The coroner's jury
brought in a verdict against "John Doe, alias Gabriel Conroy," and One
Horse Gulch added this injury of false pretence to other grievances
complained of. One or two cases of horse-stealing and sluice-robbing in
the neighbourhood were indefinitely but strongly connected with this
discovery. If I am thus particular in citing these evidences of the
various gradations of belief in the guilt of the accused, it is because
they were peculiar to One Horse Gulch, and of course never obtained in
more civilised communities.
It is scarcely necessary to say that one person in One Horse Gulch never
wavered in her opinion of Gabriel's innocence, nor that that person was
Mrs. Markle. That he was the victim of a vile conspiracy--that Mrs.
Conroy was the real culprit, and had diabolically contrived to fasten
the guilt upon her husband, Mrs. Markle not only believed herself, but
absolutely contrived to make Lawyer Maxwell and Sal believe also. More
than that, it had undoubtedly great power in restraining Sal's evidence
before the inquest, which that impulsive and sympathetic young woman
persisted in delivering behind a black veil and in a suit of the deepest
mourning that could be hastily improvised in One Horse Gulch.
"Miss Clark's evidence," said the _Silveropolis Messenger_, "although
broken by sobs and occasional expressions of indignation against the
murderer, strongly impressed the jury as the natural eloquence of one
connected with the tenderest ties to the unfortunate victim. It is said
that she was an old acquaintance of Ramirez, who was visiting her in the
hope of inducing her to consent to a happy termination of a life-long
courtship, when the dastard hand of the murderer changed the bridal
wreath to the veil of mourning. From expressions that dropped from the
witness's lips, although restrained by natural modesty, it would not be
strange if jealousy were shown to be one of the impelling causes. It is
said that previous to his marriage the alleged Gabriel Conroy was a
frequent visitor at the house of Miss Clark."
I venture to quote this extract not so much for its suggestion of a
still later theory in the last sentence, as for its poetical elegance,
and as an offset to the ruder record of the _One Horse Gulch Banner_,
which, I grieve to say, was as follows:--
"Sal was no slouch of a witness. Rigged out in ten yards of
Briggs' best black glazed muslin, and with a lot of black
mosquito netting round her head, she pranced round the stand
like a skittish hearse horse in fly-time. If Sal calculates to
go into mourning for every man she has to sling hash to, we'd
recommend her to buy up Briggs' stock and take one of Pat
Hoolan's carriages for the season. There is a strong feeling
among men whose heads are level, that this Minstrel Variety
Performance is a bluff of the _Messenger_ to keep from the
public the real motives of the murderer, which it is pretty
generally believed concerns some folks a little higher-toned
than Sal. We mention no names but we would like to know what
the Editor of the _Messenger_ was doing in the counting-room
of one of Pete Dumphy's emissaries at ten o'clock last evening.
Looking up his bank account, eh? What's the size of the figures
to-day? You hear us!"
At one o'clock that morning the Editor of the _Messenger_ fired at the
Editor of the _Banner_ and missed him. At half-past one two men were
wounded by pistol shots in a difficulty at Briggs' warehouse--cause not
stated. At nine o'clock half a dozen men lounged down the main street
and ascended the upper loft of Briggs' warehouse. In ten or fifteen
minutes a dozen more from different saloons in the town lounged as
indifferently in the direction of Briggs', until at half-past nine the
assemblage in the loft numbered fifty men. During this interval a
smaller party had gathered, apparently as accidentally and indefinitely
as to purpose, on the steps of the little two-story brick Court House in
which the prisoner was confined. At ten o'clock a horse was furiously
ridden into town, and dropped exhausted at the outskirts. A few moments
later a man hurriedly crossed the plaza toward the Court House. It was
Mr. Jack Hamlin. But the Three Voices had preceded him, and from the
steps of the Court House were already uttering the popular mandate.
It was addressed to a single man. A man who, deserted by his _posse_,
and abandoned by his friends, had for the last twelve hours sat beside
his charge, tireless, watchful, defiant, and resolute--Joe Hall, the
Sheriff of Calaveras! He had been waiting for this summons, behind
barricaded doors, with pistols in his belt, and no hope in his heart; a
man of limited ideas and restricted resources, constant only to one
intent--that of dying behind those bars, in defence of that legal trust,
which his office and an extra fifty votes at the election only two
months before had put into his hands. It had perplexed him for a moment
that he heard the voices of some of these voters below him clamouring
against him, but above their feebler pipe always rose another mandatory
sentence, "We command you to take and safely keep the body of Gabriel
Conroy," and being a simple man the recollection of the quaint
phraseology strengthened him and cleared his mind. Ah me, I fear he had
none of the external marks of a hero; as I remember him he was small,
indistinctive, and fidgety, without the repose of strength; a man who at
that extreme moment chewed tobacco and spat vigorously on the floor; who
tweaked the ends of his scanty beard, paced the floor, and tried the
locks of his pistols. Presently he stopped before Gabriel and said
almost fiercely--
"You hear that--they are coming!"
Gabriel nodded. Two hours before, when the contemplated attack of the
Vigilance Committee had been revealed to him, he had written a few lines
to Lawyer Maxwell, which he entrusted to the sheriff. He had then
relapsed into his usual tranquillity--serious, simple, and when he had
occasion to speak, diffident and apologetic.
"Are you going to help me?" continued Hall.
"In course," said Gabriel, in quiet surprise, "ef _you_ say so. But
don't ye do nowt ez would be gettin' yourself into troubil along o' me.
I ain't worth it. Maybe it 'ud be jest as square ef ye handed me over to
them chaps out yer--allowin' I was a heep o' troubil to you--and
reckonin' you'd about hed _your sheer_ o' the keer o' me, and kinder
passin' me round. But ef you _do_ feel obligated to take keer o' me, ez
hevin' promised the jedges and jury" (it is almost impossible to convey
the gentle deprecatoriness of Gabriel's voice and accent at this
juncture), "why," he added, "I'm with ye. I'm thar! You understand me!"
He rose slowly, and with quiet but powerfully significant deliberation
placed the chair he had been sitting on back against the wall. The tone
and act satisfied the sheriff. The seventy-four gunship, Gabriel Conroy,
was clearing the decks for action.
There was an ominous lull in the outcries below, and then the solitary
lifting up of a single voice, the Potential Voice of the night before!
The sheriff walked to a window in the hall and opened it. The besieger
and besieged measured each other with a look. Then came the Homeric
chaff:--
"Git out o' that, Joe Hall, and run home to your mother. She's getting
oneasy about ye!"
"The h--ll you say!" responded Hall, promptly, "and the old woman in
such a hurry she had to borry Al Barker's hat and breeches to come here!
Run home, old gal, and don't parse yourself off for a man agin!"
"This ain't no bluff, Joe Hall! Why don't ye call? Yer's fifty men; the
returns are agin ye, and two precincts yet to hear from." (This was a
double thrust, at Hall's former career as a gambler, and the closeness
of his late election vote.)
"All right! send 'em up by express--mark 'em C. O. D." (The previous
speaker was the expressman.)
"Blank you! Git!"
"Blank you! Come on!"
Here there was a rush at the door, the accidental discharge of a pistol,
and the window was slammed down. Words ceased, deeds began.
A few hours before, Hall had removed his prisoner from the uncertain
tenure and accessible position of the cells below to the open court-room
of the second floor, inaccessible by windows, and lit by a skylight in
the roof, above the reach of the crowd, whose massive doors were
barricaded by benches and desks. A smaller door at the side, easily
secured, was left open for reconnoitring. The approach to the court-room
was by a narrow stairway, halfway down whose length Gabriel had thrust
the long court-room table as a barricade to the besiegers. The lower
outer door, secured by the sheriff after the desertion of his
underlings, soon began to show signs of weakening under the vigorous
battery from without. From the landing the two men watched it eagerly.
As it slowly yielded, the sheriff drew back toward the side door and
beckoned Gabriel to follow; but with a hasty sign Gabriel suddenly
sprang forward and dropped beneath the table as the door with a crash
fell inward, beaten from its hinges. There was a rush of trampling feet
to the stairway, a cry of baffled rage over the impeding table, a sudden
scramble up and upon it, and then, as if on its own volition, the long
table suddenly reared itself on end, and staggering a moment toppled
backward with its clinging human burden on the heads of the thronging
mass below. There was a cry, a sudden stampede of the Philistines to the
street, and Samson, rising to his feet, slowly walked to the side door,
and re-entered the court-room. But at the same instant an agile besieger
who, unnoticed, had crossed the Rubicon, darted from his concealment,
and dashed by Gabriel into the room. There was a shout from the sheriff,
the door was closed hastily, a shot, and the intruder fell. But the next
moment he staggered to his knees, with outstretched hands, "Hold up! I'm
yer to help ye!"
It was Jack Hamlin! haggard, dusty, grimy; his gay feathers bedraggled,
his tall hat battered, his spotless shirt torn open at the throat, his
eyes and cheeks burning with fever, the blood dripping from the bullet
wound in his leg, but still Jack Hamlin, strong and audacious. By a
common instinct both men dropped their weapons, ran and lifted him in
their arms.
"There--shove that chair under me! that'll do," said Hamlin, coolly,
"We're even now, Joe Hall; that shot wiped out old scores, even if it
has crippled me, and lost ye my valuable aid. Dry up! and listen to me,
and then leave me here! there's but one way of escape. It's up there!"
(he pointed to the skylight) "the rear wall hangs over the Wingdam ditch
and gully. Once on the roof you can drop over with this rope, which you
must unwind from my body, for I'm d--d if I can do it myself. Can you
reach the skylight?"
"There's a step-ladder from the gallery," said the sheriff, joyously,
"but won't they see us, and be prepared?"
"Before they can reach the gully by going round, you'll be half a mile
away in the woods. But what in blank are you waiting for? Go! You can
hold on here for ten minutes more if they attack the same point; but if
they think of the skylight, and fetch ladders, you're gone in! Go!"
There was another rush on the staircase without; the surging of an
immense wave against the heavy folding doors, the blows of pick and
crowbar, the gradual yielding of the barricade a few inches, and the
splintering of benches by a few pistol shots fired through the springing
crevices of the doors. And yet the sheriff hesitated. Suddenly Gabriel
stooped down, lifted the wounded man to his shoulder as if he had been
an infant, and beckoning to the sheriff started for the gallery. But he
had not taken two steps before he staggered and lapsed heavily against
Hall, who, in his turn, stopped and clutched the railing. At the same
moment the thunder of the besiegers seemed to increase; not only the
door, but the windows rattled, the heavy chandelier fell with a crash,
carrying a part of the plaster and the elaborate cornice with it, a
shower of bricks fell through the skylight, and a cry, quite distinct
from anything heard before, rose from without. There was a pause in the
hall, and then the sudden rush of feet down the staircase, and all was
still again. The three men gazed in each other's whitened faces.
"An earthquake," said the sheriff.
"So much the better," said Jack. "It gives us time--forward!"
They reached the gallery and the little step-ladder that led to a door
that opened upon the roof, Gabriel preceding with his burden. There was
another rush up the staircase without the court room, but this time
there was no yielding in the door; the earthquake that had shaken the
foundations and settled the walls had sealed it firmly.
Gabriel was first to step out on the roof, carrying Jack Hamlin. But as
he did so another thrill ran through the building and he dropped on his
knees to save himself from falling, while the door closed smartly behind
him. In another moment the shock had passed, and Gabriel, putting down
his burden, turned to open the door for the sheriff. But to his alarm it
did not yield to his pressure; the earthquake had sealed it as it had
the door below, and Joe Hall was left a prisoner.
It was Gabriel's turn to hesitate and look at his companion. But Jack
was gazing into the street below. Then he looked up and said, "We must
go on now, Gabriel,--for--for _they've got a ladder_!"
Gabriel rose again to his feet and lifted the wounded man. The curve of
the domed roof was slight; in the centre, on a rough cupola or base, the
figure of Justice, fifteen feet high, rudely carved in wood, towered
above them with drawn sword and dangling scales. Gabriel reached the
cupola and crouched behind it, as a shout rose from the street below
that told he was discovered. A few shots were fired, one bullet imbedded
itself in the naked blade of the Goddess, and another with cruel irony,
shattered the equanimity of her balance. "Unwind the cord from me," said
Hamlin. Gabriel did so. "Fasten one end to the chimney or the statue."
But the chimney was levelled by the earthquake, and even the statue was
trembling on its pedestal. Gabriel secured the rope to an iron girder of
the skylight, and crawling on the roof dropped it cautiously over the
gable. But it was several feet too short--too far for a cripple to drop!
Gabriel crawled back to Hamlin. "You must go first," he said, quietly,
"I will hold the rope over the gable. You can trust me."
Without waiting for Hamlin's reply he fastened the rope under his arms
and half-lifted, half-dragged him to the gable. Then pressing his hand
silently, he laid himself down and lowered the wounded man safely to the
ground. He had recovered the rope again, and crawling to the cupola, was
about to fasten the line to the iron girder when something slowly rose
above the level of the roof beyond him. The uprights of a ladder!
The Three Voices had got tired of waiting a reply to their
oft-reiterated question, and had mounted the ladder by way of forcing an
answer at the muzzles of their revolvers. They reached the level of the
roof, one after another, and again propounded their inquiry. And then as
it seemed to their awe-stricken fancy, the only figure there--the statue
of Justice--awoke to their appeal. Awoke! leaned towards them; advanced
its awful sword and shook its broken balance, and then toppling forward
with one mighty impulse, came down upon them, swept them from the
ladder, and silenced the Voices for ever! And from behind its pedestal
Gabriel arose, panting, pale, but triumphant.
CHAPTER VIII.
IN TENEBRIS SERVARE FIDEM.
Although a large man, Gabriel was lithe and active, and dropped the
intervening distance where the rope was scant, lightly, and without
injury. Happily the falling of the statue was looked upon as the result
of another earthquake shock, and its disastrous effect upon the storming
party for awhile checked the attack. Gabriel lifted his half-fainting
ally in his arms, and gaining the friendly shelter of the ditch, in ten
minutes was beyond the confines of One Horse Gulch, and in the shadow of
the pines of Conroy's Hill. There were several tunnel openings only
known to him. Luckily the first was partly screened by a fall of rock
loosened by the earthquake from the hill above, and satisfied that it
would be unrecognised by any eye less keen than his own, Gabriel turned
into it with his fainting burden. And it was high time. For the
hæmorrhage from Jack Hamlin's wound was so great that that gentleman,
after a faint attempt to wave his battered hat above his dishevelled
curls, suddenly succumbed, and lay as cold and senseless and beautiful
as a carven Apollo.
Then Gabriel stripped him, and found an ugly hole in his thigh that had
narrowly escaped traversing the femoral artery, and set himself about
that rude surgery which he had acquired by experience, and that more
delicate nursing which was instinctive with him. He was shocked at the
revelation of a degree of emaciation in the figure of this young fellow
that he had not before suspected. Gabriel had nursed many sick men, and
here was one who clearly ought to be under the doctor's hands,
economising his vitality as a sedentary invalid, who had shown himself
to him hitherto only as a man of superabundant activity and animal
spirits. Whence came the power that had animated this fragile shell?
Gabriel was perplexed; he looked down upon his own huge frame with a new
and sudden sense of apology and depreciation, as if it were an offence
to this spare and bloodless Adonis.
And then with an infinite gentleness, as of a young mother over her
newborn babe, he stanched the blood and bound up the wounds of his new
friend, so skilfully that he never winced, and with a peculiar purring
accompaniment that lulled him to repose. Once only, as he held him in
his arms, did he change his expression, and that was when a shadow and a
tread--perhaps of a passing hare or squirrel--crossed the mouth of his
cave, when he suddenly caught the body to his breast with the fierceness
of a lioness interrupted with her cubs. In his own rough experience he
was much awed by the purple and fine linen of this fine gentleman's
underclothing--not knowing the prevailing habits of his class--and when
he had occasion to open his bosom to listen to the faint beatings of his
heart, he put aside with great delicacy and instinctive honour a fine
gold chain from which depended some few relics and keepsakes which this
scamp wore. But one was a photograph, set in an open locket, that he
could not fail to see, and that at once held him breathless above it. It
was the exact outline and features of his sister Grace, but with a
strange shadow over that complexion which he remembered well as
beautiful, that struck him with superstitious awe. He scanned it again
eagerly. "Maybe it was a dark day when she sot!" he murmured softly to
himself; "maybe it's the light in this yer tunnel; maybe the heat o'
this poor chap's buzzum hez kinder turned it. It ain't measles, fur she
hed 'em along o' Olly." He paused and looked at the unconscious man
before him, as if trying to connect him with the past. "No," he said
simply, with a resigned sigh, "it's agin reason! She never knowed him!
It's only my foolishness, and my thinkin' and thinkin' o' her so much!
It's another gal, and none o' your business, Gabe, and you a' prying
inter another man's secrets, and takin' advantage of him when he's
down." He hurriedly replaced it in his companion's bosom, and closed the
collar of his shirt, as Jack's lips moved. "Pete!" he called, feebly.
"It's his pardner, maybe, he's callin' on," said Gabriel to himself;
then aloud, with the usual, comforting professional assent, "In course,
Pete, surely! He's coming, right off--he'll be yer afore you know it."
"Pete," continued Jack, forcibly, "take the mare off my leg, she's
breaking it! Don't you see? She's stumbled! D--n it, quick! I'll be
late. They'll string him up before I get there!"
In a moment Gabriel's stout heart sank. If fever should set in--if he
should become delirious, they would be lost. Providentially, however,
Jack's aberration was only for a moment; he presently opened his black
eyes and stared at Gabriel. Gabriel smiled assuringly. "Am I dead and
buried," said Jack, gravely, looking around the dark vault, "or have I
got 'em again?"
"Ye wuz took bad fur a minit--that's all," said Gabriel, reassuringly,
much relieved himself, "yer all right now!"
Hamlin tried to rise but could not. "That's a lie," he said, cheerfully.
"What's to be done?"
"Ef you'd let me hev my say, without gettin' riled," said Gabriel,
apologetically, "I'd tell ye. Look yer," he continued, persuasively, "ye
ought to hev a doctor afore thet wound gets inflamed; and ye ain't goin'
to get one, bein' packed round by me. Now don't ye flare up, but harkin!
Allowin' I goes out to them chaps ez is huntin' us, and sez, 'look yer,
you kin take me, provided ye don't bear no malice agin my friend, and
you sends a doctor to fetch him outer the tunnel.' Don't yer see, they
can't prove anythin' agin ye, anyway," continued Gabriel, with a look of
the intensest cunning, "I'll swear I took you pris'ner, and Joe won't go
back on his shot."
In spite of his pain and danger this proposition afforded Jack Hamlin
apparently the largest enjoyment. "Thank ye," he said, with a smile,
"but as there's a warrant, by this time, out against me for
horse-stealing, I reckon I won't put myself in the way of their nursing.
They might forgive you for killing a Mexican of no great market value,
but they ain't goin' to extend the right hand of fellowship to me after
running off with their ringleader's mustang! Particularly when that
animal's foundered and knee-sprung. No, sir!"
Gabriel stared at his companion without speaking.
"I was late coming back with Olly to Wingdam. I had to swap the horse
and buggy for the mare without having time to arrange particulars with
the owner. I don't wonder you're shocked," continued Jack,
mischievously, affecting to misunderstand Gabriel's silence, "but thet's
me. Thet's the kind of company you've got into. Procrastination and want
of punctuality has brought me to this. Never procrastinate, Gabriel.
Always make it a point to make it a rule, never to be late at the
Sabbath school!"
"Ef I hed owt to give ye," said Gabriel, ruefully, "a drop o' whisky, or
suthin' to keep up your stren'th!"
"I never touch intoxicating liquors without the consent of my
physician," said Jack, gravely, "they're too exciting! I must be kept
free from all excitement. Something soothing, or sedentary like this,"
he added, striking his leg. But even through his mischievous smile his
face paled, and a spasm of pain crossed it.
"I reckon we'll hev to stick yer ontil dark," said Gabriel, "and then
strike acrost the gully to the woods on Conroy's Hill. Ye'll be easier
thar, and we're safe ontil sun-up, when we kin hunt another tunnel. Thar
ain't no choice," added Gabriel, apologetically.
Jack made a grimace, and cast a glance around the walls of the tunnel.
The luxurious scamp missed his usual comfortable surroundings. "Well,"
he assented, with a sigh, "I suppose the game's made anyway! and we've
got to stick here like snails on a rock for an hour yet. Well," he
continued, impatiently, as Gabriel, after improvising a rude couch for
him with some withered pine tassels gathered at the mouth of the tunnel,
sat down beside him, "are you goin' to bore me to death, now that you've
got me here--sittin' there like an owl? Why don't you say something?"
"Say what?" asked Gabriel, simply.
"Anything! Lie if you want to; only talk!"
"I'd like to put a question to ye, Mr. Hamlin," said Gabriel, with great
gentleness,--"allowin' in course, ye'll answer or no jest ez as is
agree'ble to ye--reckonin' it's no business o' mine nor pryin' into
secrets, ony jess to pass away the time ontil sundown. When you was tuk
bad a spell ago, unloosin' yer shirt thar, I got to see a pictur that ye
hev around yer neck. I ain't askin' who nor which it is--but ony
this--ez thet--thet--thet young woman dark complected ez that picter
allows her to be?"
Jack's face had recovered its colour by the time that Gabriel had
finished, and he answered promptly, "A d--d sight more so! Why, that
picture's fair alongside of her!"
Gabriel looked a little disappointed, Hamlin was instantly up in arms.
"Yes, sir--and when I say that," he returned, "I mean, by thunder, that
the whitest faced woman in the world don't begin to be as handsome. Thar
ain't an angel that she couldn't give points to and beat! That's _her_
style! It don't," continued Mr. Hamlin, taking the picture from his
breast, and wiping its face with his handkerchief--"it don't begin to
do her justice. What," he asked suddenly and aggressively, "have _you_
got to say about it, anyway?"
"I reckoned it kinder favoured my sister Grace," said Gabriel,
submissively. "Ye didn't know her, Mr. Hamlin? She was lost sence
'49--thet's all!"
Mr. Hamlin measured Gabriel with a contempt that was delicious in its
sublime audacity and unconsciousness. "Your sister?" he repeated,
"that's a healthy lookin' _sister_ of such a man as you--ain't it? Why,
look at it," roared Jack, thrusting the picture under Gabriel's nose.
"Why, it's--it's a _lady_!"
"Ye musn't jedge Gracey by me, nor even Olly," interposed Gabriel,
gently, evading Mr. Hamlin's contempt.
But Jack was not to be appeased, "Does your sister sing like an angel,
and talk Spanish like Governor Alvarado: is she connected with one of
the oldest Spanish families in the state; does she run a rancho and
thirty square leagues of land, and is Dolores Salvatierra her nickname?
Is her complexion like the young bark of the madroño--the most beautiful
thing ever seen--did every other woman look chalky beside her, eh?"
"No!" said Gabriel, with a sigh--"it was just my foolishness, Mr.
Hamlin. But seein' that picter, kinder"----
"I stole it," interrupted Jack, with the same frankness. "I saw it in
her parlour, on the table, and I froze to it when no one was looking.
Lord, _she_ wouldn't have given it to _me_. I reckon those relatives of
hers would have made it very lively for me if they'd suspected it. Hoss
stealing ain't a circumstance to this, Gabriel," said Jack, with a
reckless laugh. Then with equal frankness, and a picturesque freedom of
description, he related his first and only interview with Donna Dolores.
I am glad to say that this scamp exaggerated, if anything, the
hopelessness of his case, dwelt but slightly on his own services, and
concealed the fact that Donna Dolores had even thanked him. "You can
reckon from this the extent of my affection for that Johnny Ramirez, and
why I just froze to you when I heard you'd dropped him. But come now,
it's your deal; tell us all about it. The boys put it up that he was
hangin' round your wife,--and you went for him for all he was worth. Go
on--I'm waiting--and," added Jack, as a spasm of pain passed across his
face, "and aching to that degree that I'll yell if you don't take my
mind off it."
But Gabriel's face was grave and his lips silent as he bent over Mr.
Hamlin to adjust the bandages. "Go on," said Jack, darkly, "or I'll tear
off these rags and bleed to death before your eyes. What are you afraid
of? I know all about your wife--you can't tell me anything about her.
Didn't I spot her in Sacramento--before she married you--when she had
this same Chilino, Ramirez, on a string. Why, she's fooled him as she
has you. You ain't such a blasted fool as to be stuck after her still,
are you?" and Jack raised himself on his elbow the more intently to
regard this possible transcendent idiot.
"You was speakin' o' this Mexican, Ramirez," said Gabriel, after a
pause, fixing his now clear and untroubled eyes on his interlocutor.
"Of course," roared out Jack, impatiently, "did you think I was talking
of----?" Here Mr. Hamlin offered a name that suggested the most complete
and perfect antithesis known to modern reason.
"I didn't kill him!" said Gabriel, quietly.
"Of course not," said Jack, promptly. "He sorter stumbled and fell over
on your bowie-knife as you were pickin' your teeth with it. But go
on--how did you do it? Where did you spot him? Did he make any fight?
Has he got any sand in him?"
"I tell ye I didn't kill him!"
"Who did, then?" screamed Jack, furious with pain and impatience.
"I don't know--I reckon--that is----" and Gabriel stopped short with a
wistful perplexed look at his companion.
"Perhaps, Mr. Gabriel Conroy," said Jack, with sudden coolness and
deliberation of speech, and a baleful light in his dark eyes, "perhaps
you'll be good enough to tell me what this means--what _is_ your little
game? Perhaps you'll kindly inform me what I'm lying here crippled for?
What you were doing up in the Court House, when you were driving those
people crazy with excitement? What you're hiding here in this blank
family vault for? And maybe, if you've got time, you'll tell me what was
the reason I made that pleasant little trip to Sacramento? I know I
required the exercise, and then there was the honour of being introduced
to your little sister--but perhaps you'll tell me WHAT IT WAS FOR!"
"Jack," said Gabriel, leaning forward, with a sudden return of his old
trouble and perplexity, "I thought _she_ did it! and thinkin' that--when
they asked me--I took it upon _myself_! I didn't know to ring _you_ into
this, Jack! I thought--I thought--thet--it 'ud all be one--thet they'd
hang me up afore this--I did, Jack, honest!"
"And you didn't kill Ramirez?"
"No."
"And you reckoned your wife did?"
"Yes."
"And you took the thing on yourself?"
"I did."
"_You_ did!"
"I did!"
"You DID?"
"I did!"
Mr. Hamlin rolled over on his back, and began to whistle "When the
spring time comes, gentle Annie!" as the only way of expressing his
inordinate contempt for the whole proceeding.
Gabriel slowly slid his hand under Mr. Hamlin's helpless back, and under
pretext of arranging his bandages, lifted him in his arms like a
truculent babe. "Jack," he said, softly, "ef thet picter of yours--that
coloured woman"----
"Which?" said Jack, fiercely.
"I mean--thet purty creature--ef she and you hed been married, and you'd
found out accidental like that she'd fooled ye--more belike, Jack," he
added, hastily, "o' your own foolishness--than her little game--and"----
"_That_ woman was a lady," interrupted Jack, savagely, "and your wife's
a"----But he paused, looking into Gabriel's face, and then added, "Oh
git! will you! Leave me alone! 'I want to be an angel and with the
angels stand.'"
"And thet woman hez a secret," continued Gabriel, unmindful of the
interruption, "and bein' hounded by the man az knows it, up and kills
him, ye wouldn't let thet woman--that poor pooty creeture--suffer for
it! No, Jack! Ye would rather pint your own toes up to the sky than do
it. It ain't in ye, Jack, and it ain't in me, so help me, God!"
"This is all very touching, Mr. Conroy, and does credit, sir, to your
head and heart, and I kin feel it drawing Hall's ball out of my leg
while you're talkin'," said Jack, with his black eyes evading Gabriel's
and wandering to the entrance of the tunnel. "What time is it, you d--d
old fool, ain't it dark enough yet to git outer this hole?" He groaned,
and after a pause added fiercely, "How do you know your wife did it?"
Gabriel swiftly, and for him even concisely, related the events of the
day from his meeting with Ramirez in the morning, to the time that he
had stumbled upon the body of Victor Ramirez on his return to keep the
appointment at his wife's written request.
Jack only interrupted him once to inquire why, after discovering the
murder, he had not gone on to keep his appointment.
"I thought it wa'n't of no use," said Gabriel, simply; "I didn't want to
let her see I knowed it."
Hamlin groaned, "If you had you would have found her in the company of
the man who _did_ do it, you daddering old idiot!"
"What man?" asked Gabriel.
"The first man you saw your wife with that morning; the man I ought to
be helping now, instead of lyin' here."
"You don't mean to allow, Jack, ez you reckon she _didn't_ do it?" asked
Gabriel, in alarm.
"I do," said Hamlin, coolly.
"Then what did she reckon to let on by that note?" said Gabriel, with a
sudden look of cunning.
"Don't know," returned Jack, "like as not, being a d--d fool, you didn't
read it right! hand it over and let me see it."
Gabriel (hesitatingly): "I can't."
Hamlin: "You can't?"
Gabriel (apologetically): "I tore it up!"
Hamlin (with frightful deliberation): "you DID?"'
"I did."
Jack (after a long crushing silence): "Were you ever under medical
treatment for these spells?"
Gabriel (with great simplicity and submission): "They allers used to
allow I waz queer."
Hamlin (after another pause): "Has Pete Dumphy got anything agin you?"
Gabriel (surprisedly): "No."
Hamlin (languidly): "It was his right hand man, his agent at Wingdam
that started up the Vigilantes! I heard him, and saw him in the crowd
hounding 'em on."
Gabriel (simply): "I reckon you're out thar, Jack, Dumphy's my friend.
It was him that first gin me the money to open this yer mine. And I'm
his superintendent!"
Jack: "Oh!" (after another pause). "Is there any first-class Lunatic
Asylum in this county where they would take in two men, one an
incurable, and the other sufferin' from a gunshot wound brought on by
playin' with firearms?"
Gabriel (with a deep sigh): "Ye mus'n't talk, Jack, ye must be quiet
till dark."
Jack, dragged down by pain, and exhausted in the intervals of each
paroxysm was quiescent.
Gradually, the faint light that had filtered through the brush and
débris before the tunnel faded quite away, and a damp charnel-house
chill struck through the limbs of the two refugees, and made them
shiver; the flow of water from the dripping walls seemed to have
increased; Gabriel's experienced eye had already noted that the
earthquake had apparently opened seams in the gully and closed up one of
the leads. He carefully laid his burden down again, and crept to the
opening. The distant hum of voices and occupation had ceased, the sun
was setting; in a few moments, calculating on the brief twilight of the
Mountain region, it would be dark, and they might with safety leave
their hiding-place. As he was returning, he noticed a slant beam of
light, hitherto unobserved, crossing the tunnel from an old drift.
Examining it more closely, Gabriel was amazed to find that during the
earthquake a "cave" had taken place in the drift, possibly precipitated
by the shock, disclosing the more surprising fact that there had been a
previous slight but positive excavation on the hill side, above the
tunnel, that antedated any record of One Horse Gulch known to Gabriel.
He was perfectly familiar with every foot of the hill side, and the
existence of this ancient prospecting "hole" had never been even
suspected by him. While he was still gazing at the opening, his foot
struck against some glittering metallic substance. He stooped and picked
up a small tin can, not larger than a sardine box, hermetically sealed
and soldered, in which some inscription had been traced, but which the
darkness of the tunnel prevented his deciphering. In the faint hope that
it might contain something of benefit to his companion, Gabriel returned
to the opening, and even ventured to step beyond its shadow. But all
attempts to read the inscription were in vain. He opened the box with a
sharp stone; it contained, to his great disappointment, only a
memorandum book and some papers. He swept them into the pocket of his
blouse, and re-entered the tunnel. He had not been absent altogether
more than five minutes, but when he reached the place where he had left
Jack, he was gone!
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH HECTOR ARISES FROM THE DITCH.
He stood for a moment breathless and paralysed with surprise; then he
began slowly and deliberately to examine the tunnel step by step. When
he had proceeded a hundred feet from the spot, to his great relief he
came upon Jack Hamlin, sitting upright in a side drift. His manner was
feverish and excited, and his declaration that he had not moved from the
place where Gabriel had left him at once was accepted by the latter as
the aberration of incipient inflammation and fever. When Gabriel stated
that it was time to go, he replied, "Yes," and added with such
significance that his business with the murderer of Victor Ramirez was
now over, and that he was ready to enter the Lunatic Asylum at once,
that Gabriel with great precipitation lifted him in his arms and carried
him without delay from the tunnel. Once more in the open air the
energies of both men seemed to rally; Jack became as a mere feather in
Gabriel's powerful arms, and even forgot his querulous opposition to
being treated as a helpless child, while Gabriel trod the familiar banks
of the ditch, climbed the long ascent and threaded the aisles of the
pillared pines of Reservoir Hill with the free experienced feet of the
mountaineer. Here Gabriel knew he was safe until daybreak, and gathered
together some withered pine boughs and its fragrant tassels for a couch
for his helpless companion. And here, as he feared, fever set in; the
respiration of the wounded man grew quick and hurried; he began to talk
rapidly and incoherently, of Olly, of Ramirez, of the beautiful girl
whose picture hung upon his breast, of Gabriel himself, and finally of a
stranger who was, as it seemed to him, his sole auditor, the gratuitous
coinage of his excited fancy. Once or twice he raised his voice to a
shout, and then to Gabriel's great alarm suddenly he began to sing, and
before Gabriel could place his hand upon his mouth he had trolled out
the verse of a popular ballad. The rushing river below them gurgled,
beat its bars, and sang an accompaniment, the swaying pine sighed and
creaked in unison, the patient stars above them stared and bent
breathlessly, and then to Gabriel's exalted consciousness an echo of the
wounded man's song arose from the gulch below! For a moment he held his
breath with an awful mingling of joy and fear. Was he going mad too? or
was it really the voice of little Olly? The delirious man beside him
answered his query with another verse; the antiphonal response rose
again from the valley. Gabriel hesitated no longer, but with feverish
hands gathered a few dried twigs and pine cones into a pile, and touched
a match to them. At the next moment they flashed a beacon to the sky, in
another there was a crackling of the underbrush and the hurried onset of
two figures, and before the slow Gabriel could recover from his
astonishment, Olly flew, panting, to his arms, while her companion, the
faithful Pete, sank breathlessly beside his wounded and insensible
master.
Olly was first to find her speech. That speech, after the unfailing
instincts of her sex in moments of excitement, was the instant
arraignment of somebody else as the cause of that excitement, and at
once put the whole universe on the defensive.
"Why didn't you send word where you was?" she said, impatiently, "and
wot did you have it so dark for, and up a steep hill, and leavin' me
alone at Wingdam, and why didn't you call without singin'?"
And then Gabriel, after the fashion of _his_ sex, ignored all but the
present, and holding Olly in his arms, said--
"It's my little girl, ain't it? Come to her own brother Gabe! bless
her!"
Whereat Mr. Hamlin, after the fashion of lunatics of any sex, must needs
be consistent, and break out again into song.
"He's looney, Olly, what with fever along o' bein' shot in the leg a'
savin' me, ez izn't worth savin'," explained Gabriel, apologetically.
"It was him ez did the singin'."
Then Olly, still following the feminine instinct, at once deserted
conscious rectitude for indefensible error, and flew to Mr. Hamlin's
side.
"Oh, where is he hurt, Pete? is he going to die?"
And Pete, suspicious of any medication but his own, replied doubtfully,
"He looks bad, Miss Olly, dat's a fac--but now bein' in my han's, bress
de Lord A'mighty, and we able to minister to him, we hopes fur de bess.
Your brudder meant well, is a fair meanin' man, miss--a toll'able nuss,
but he ain't got the peerfeshn'l knowledge dat Mars Jack in de habit o'
gettin'." Here Pete unslung from his shoulders a wallet, and proceeded
to extract therefrom a small medicine case, with the resigned air of the
family physician, who has been called full late to remedy the practice
of rustic empiricism.
"How did ye come yer?" asked Gabriel of Olly, when he had submissively
transferred his wounded charge to Pete. "What made ye allow I was hidin'
yer? How did ye reckon to find me? but ye was allus peart and onhanded,
Olly," he suggested, gazing admiringly at his sister.
"When I woke up at Wingdam, after Jack went away, who should I find,
Gabe, but Lawyer Maxwell standin' thar, and askin' me a heap o'
questions. I supposed you'd been makin' a fool o' yourself agin, Gabe,
and afore I let on thet I knowed a word, I jist made him tell me
everythin' about you, Gabe, and it was orful! and you bein' arrested fur
murder, ez wouldn't harm a fly, let alone that Mexican ez I never liked,
Gabe, and all this comes of tendin' his legs instead o' lookin' arter
me. And all them questions waz about July, and whether she wasn't your
enemy, and if they ever waz a woman, Gabe, ez waz sweet on you, you know
it was July! And all thet kind o' foolishness! And then when he couldn't
get ennythin' out o' me agin July, he allowed to Pete that he must take
me right to you, fur he said ther was talk o' the Vigilantes gettin'
hold o' ye afore the trial, and he was goin' to get an order to take
you outer the county, and he reckoned they wouldn't dare to tech ye if I
waz with ye, Gabe--and I'd like to see 'em try it! and he allowed to
Pete that he must take me right to you! And Pete--and thar ain't a
whiter nigger livin' than that ole man--said he would--reckonin' you
know to find Jack, as he allowed to me they'd hev to kill afore they got
you--and he came down yer with me. And when we got yer--you was off--and
the sheriff gone--and the Vigilantes--what with bein' killed, the
biggest o' them, by the earthquake--what was orful, Gabe, but we bein'
on the road didn't get to feel!--jest scared outer their butes! And then
a Chinyman gins us your note"----
"My note?" interrupted Gabriel, "I didn't send ye any note."
"Then _his_ note," said Olly, impatiently, pointing to Hamlin, "sayin'
'You'll find your friends on Conroy's Hill!'--don't you see, Gabe?"
continued Olly, stamping her foot in fury at her brother's slowness of
comprehension, "and so we came and heard Jack singin', and a mighty
foolish thing it was to do, and yer we are!"
"But he didn't send any note, Olly," persisted Gabriel.
"Well, you awful old Gabe, what difference does it make _who_ sent it?"
continued the practical Olly; "here we are, along o' thet note, and,"
she added, feeling in her pocket, "there's the note!"
She handed Gabriel a small slip of paper with the pencilled words,
"You'll find your friends waiting for you to-night on Conroy's Hill."
The handwriting was unfamiliar, but even if it were Jack's, how did _he_
manage to send it without his knowledge? He had not lost sight of Jack
except during the few moments he had reconnoitred the mouth of the
tunnel, since they had escaped from the Court House. Gabriel was
perplexed; in the presence of this anonymous note he was confused and
speechless, and could only pass his hand helplessly across his forehead.
"But it's all right now, Gabe," continued Olly, reassuringly, "the
Vigilantes hev run away--what was left of them; the sheriff ain't to be
found nowhar! This yer earthquake hez frightened everybody outer the
idea of huntin' ye--nobody talks of ennything but the earthquake; they
even say, Gabe--I forgot to tell ye--that our claim on Conroy Hill has
busted, too, and the mine ain't worth shucks now! But there's no one to
interfere with us now, Gabe! And we're goin' to get into a waggin that
Pete hez bespoke for us at the head of Reservoir Gulch to-morrow mornin'
at sun-up! And then Pete sez we kin git down to Stockton and 'Frisco and
out to a place called San Antonio, that the devil himself wouldn't think
o' goin' to, and thar we kin stay, me and you and Jack, until this whole
thing has blown over and Jack gits well agin and July comes back."
Gabriel, still holding the hand of his sister, dared not tell her of the
suspicions of Lawyer Maxwell, regarding her sister-in-law's complicity
in this murder, nor Jack's conviction of her infidelity, and he
hesitated. But after a pause, he suggested with a consciousness of great
discretion and artfulness, "Suppose thet July doesn't come back?"
"Look yer, Gabe," said Olly, suddenly, "ef yer goin' to be thet foolish
and ridiklus agin, I'll jess quit. Ez if thet woman would ever leave
ye." (Gabriel groaned inwardly.) "Why, when she hears o' this, wild
hosses couldn't keep her from ye. Don't be a mule, Gabe, don't!" And
Gabriel was dumb.
Meantime, under the influence of some anodyne which Pete had found in
his medicine chest, Mr. Hamlin became quiet and pretermitted his vocal
obligato. Gabriel, whose superb physical adjustment no mental excitement
could possibly overthrow, and whose regular habits were never broken by
anxiety, nodded, even while holding Olly's hand, and in due time slept,
and I regret to say--writing of a hero--snored. After a while Olly
herself succumbed to the drowsy coolness of the night, and wrapped in
Mr. Hamlin's shawl, pillowed her head upon her brother's broad breast
and slept too. Only Pete remained to keep the watch, he being
comparatively fresh and strong, and declaring that the condition of Mr.
Hamlin required his constant attention.
It was after midnight that Olly dreamed a troubled dream. She thought
that she was riding with Mr. Hamlin to seek her brother, when she
suddenly came upon a crowd of excited men who were bearing Gabriel to
the gallows. She thought that she turned to Mr. Hamlin frantically for
assistance, when she saw to her horror that his face had changed--that
it was no longer he who sat beside her, but a strange, wild-looking,
haggard man--a man whose face was old and pinched, but whose grey hair
was discoloured by a faded dye that had worn away, leaving the original
colour in patches, and the antique foppery of whose dress was deranged
by violent exertion, and grimy with the dust of travel--a dandy whose
strapped trousers of a bygone fashion were ridiculously loosened in one
leg, whose high stock was unbuckled and awry! She awoke with a start.
Even then her dream was so vivid that it seemed to her this face was
actually bending over her with such a pathetic earnestness and inquiry
that she called aloud. It was some minutes before Pete came to her, but
as he averred, albeit somewhat incoherently and rubbing his eyes to show
that he had not closed them, that he had never slept a wink, and that it
was impossible for any stranger to have come upon them without his
knowledge, Olly was obliged to accept it all as a dream! But she did not
sleep again. She watched the moon slowly sink behind the serrated pines
of Conroy's Hill; she listened to the crackling tread of strange animals
in the underbrush, to the far-off rattle of wheels on the Wingdam
turnpike, until the dark outline of the tree trunks returned, and with
the cold fires of the mountain sunrise the chilly tree-tops awoke to
winged life, and the twitter of birds, while the faint mists of the
river lingered with the paling moon like tired sentinels for the relief
of the coming day. And then Olly awoke her companions. They struggled
back into consciousness with characteristic expression. Gabriel slowly
and apologetically, as of one who had overslept himself; Jack Hamlin
violently and aggressively, as if some unfair advantage had been taken
of his human weakness that it was necessary to combat at once. I am
sorry to say that his recognition of Pete was accompanied by a degree of
profanity and irreverence that was dangerous to his own physical
weakness. "And you had to trapse down yer, sniffin' about my tracks, you
black and tan idiot," continued Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on his arm,
"and after I'd left everything all straight at Wingdam--and jest as I
was beginning to reform and lead a new life! How do, Olly? You'll excuse
my not rising. Come and kiss me! If that nigger of mine has let you want
for anything, jest tell me and I'll discharge him. Well! hang it all!
what are you waitin' for? Here it's daybreak and we've got to get down
to the head of Reservoir Gulch. Come, little children, the picnic is
over!"
Thus adjured, Gabriel rose, and lifting Mr. Hamlin in his arms with
infinite care and tenderness, headed the quaint procession. Mr. Hamlin,
perhaps recognising some absurdity in the situation, forbore exercising
his querulous profanity on the man who held him helpless as an infant,
and Olly and Pete followed slowly behind.
Their way led down Reservoir Cañon, beautiful, hopeful, and bracing in
the early morning air. A few birds, awakened by the passing tread,
started into song a moment, and then were still. With a cautious
gentleness, habitual to the man, Gabriel forbore, as he strode along, to
step upon the few woodland blossoms yet left to the dry summer woods.
There was a strange fragrance in the air, the light odours liberated
from a thousand nameless herbs, the faint melancholy spicing of dead
leaves. There was, moreover, that sense of novelty which Nature always
brings with the dawn in deep forests; a fancy that during the night the
earth had been created anew, and was fresh from the Maker's hand, as yet
untried by burden or tribulation, and guiltless of a Past. And so it
seemed to the little caravan--albeit fleeing from danger and death--that
yesterday and its fears were far away, or had, in some unaccountable
way, shrunk behind them in the west with the swiftly dwindling night.
Olly once or twice strayed from the trail to pick an opening flower or
lingering berry; Pete hummed to himself the fragment of an old
camp-meeting song.
And so they walked on, keeping the rosy dawn and its promise before
them. From time to time the sound of far-off voices came to them
faintly. Slowly the light quickened; morning stole down the hills upon
them stealthily, and at last the entrance of the cañon became dimly
outlined. Olly uttered a shout and pointed to a black object moving
backward and forward before the opening. It was the waggon and team
awaiting them. Olly's shout was answered by a whistle from the driver,
and they quickened their pace joyfully; in another moment they would be
beyond the reach of danger.
Suddenly a voice that seemed to start from the ground before them called
on Gabriel to stop! He did so unconsciously, drawing Hamlin closer to
him with one hand, and with the other making a broad protecting sweep
toward Olly. And then a figure rose slowly from the ditch at the
roadside and barred their passage.
It was only a single man! A small man bespattered with the slime of the
ditch and torn with brambles; a man exhausted with fatigue and tremulous
with nervous excitement, but still erect and threatening. A man whom
Gabriel and Hamlin instantly recognised, even through his rags and
exhaustion! It was Joe Hall--the sheriff of Calaveras! He held a pistol
in his right hand, even while his left exhaustedly sought the support of
a tree! By a common instinct both men saw that while the hand was feeble
the muzzle of the weapon covered them.
"Gabriel Conroy, I want you," said the apparition.
"He's got us lined! Drop me," whispered Hamlin, hastily, "drop me! I'll
spoil his aim."
But Gabriel, by a swift, dexterous movement that seemed incompatible
with his usual deliberation, instantly transferred Hamlin to his other
arm, and with his burden completely shielded, presented his own right
shoulder squarely to the muzzle of Hall's revolver.
"Gabriel Conroy, you are my prisoner," repeated the voice.
Gabriel did not move. But over his shoulder as a rest, dropped the long
shining barrel of Jack's own favourite duelling pistol, and over it
glanced the bright eye of its crippled owner. The issue was joined!
There was a deathlike silence.
"Go on!" said Jack, quietly. "Keep cool, Joe. For if _you_ miss him,
you're gone in; and hit or miss _I've_ got _you_ sure!"
The barrel of Hall's pistol wavered a moment, from physical weakness but
not from fear. The great heart behind it, though broken, was undaunted.
"It's all right," said the voice fatefully. "It's all right, Jack!
Ye'll kill me, I know! But ye can't help sayin' arter all that I did my
duty to Calaveras as the sheriff, and 'specially to them twenty-five men
ez elected me over Boggs! I ain't goin' to let ye pass. I've been on
this yer hunt, up and down this cañon all night. Hevin' no possy I
reckon I've got to die yer in my tracks. All right! But ye'll git into
thet waggon over my dead body, Jack--over my dead body, sure."
Even as he spoke these words he straightened himself to his full
height--which was not much, I fear--and steadied himself by the tree,
his weapon still advanced and pointing at Gabriel, but with such an
evident and hopeless contrast between his determination and his evident
inability to execute it, that his attitude impressed his audience less
with its heroism than its half-pathetic absurdity.
Mr. Hamlin laughed. But even then he suddenly felt the grasp of Gabriel
relax, found himself slipping to his companion's feet, and the next
moment was deposited carefully but ignominiously on the ground by
Gabriel, who strode quietly and composedly up to the muzzle of the
sheriff's pistol.
"I am ready to go with ye, Mr. Hall," he said, gently, putting the
pistol aside with a certain large indifferent wave of the hand, "ready
to go with ye--now--at onct! But I've one little favour to ax ye. This
yer pore young man, ez yur wounded, unbeknownst," he said, pointing to
Hamlin, who was writhing and gritting his teeth in helpless rage and
fury, "ez not to be tuk with me, nor for me! Thar ain't nothin' to be
done to him. He hez been dragged inter this fight. But I'm ready to go
with ye now, Mr. Hall, and am sorry you got into the troubil along o'
me."
BOOK VII.
_THE BED ROCK._
CHAPTER I.
IN THE TRACK OF A STORM.
A quarter of an hour before the messenger of Peter Dumphy had reached
Poinsett's office, Mr. Poinsett had received a more urgent message. A
telegraph despatched from San Antonio had been put into his hands. Its
few curt words, more significant to an imaginative man than rhetorical
expression, ran as follows:--
"Mission Church destroyed. Father Felipe safe. Blessed Trinity
in ruins and Dolores missing. My house spared. Come at
once.--MARIA SEPULVIDA."
The following afternoon at four o'clock Arthur Poinsett reached San
Geronimo, within fifteen miles of his destination. Here the despatch was
confirmed with some slight local exaggeration.
"Saints and devils! There is no longer a St. Anthony! The _temblor_ has
swallowed him!" said the innkeeper, sententiously. "It is the end of
all! Such is the world. Thou wilt find stones on stones instead of
houses, Don Arturo. Wherefore another glass of the brandy of France, or
the whisky of the American, as thou dost prefer. But of San
Antonio--nothing!--Absolutely--perfectly--truly nothing!"
In spite of this cheering prophecy, Mr. Poinsett did not wait for the
slow diligence, but mounting a fleet mustang dashed off in quest of the
missing Mission. He was somewhat relieved at the end of an hour by the
far-off flash of the sea, the rising of the dark green fringe of the
Mission orchard and _Encinal_, and above it the white dome of one of the
Mission towers. But at the next moment Arthur checked his horse and
rubbed his eyes in wonder. Where was the other tower? He put spurs to
his horse again and dashed off at another angle, and again stopped and
gazed. _There was but one tower remaining._ The Mission Church must have
been destroyed!
Perhaps it was this discovery, perhaps it was some instinct stronger
than this; but when Arthur had satisfied himself of this fact he left
the direct road, which would have brought him to the Mission, and
diverged upon the open plain towards the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity.
A fierce wind from the sea swept the broad _llano_ and seemed to oppose
him, step by step--a wind so persistent and gratuitous that it appeared
to Arthur to possess a moral quality, and as such was to be resisted and
overcome by his superior will. Here, at least, all was unchanged; here
was the dead, flat monotony of land and sky. Here was the brittle, harsh
stubble of the summer fields, sun-baked and wind-dried; here were the
long stretches of silence, from which even the harrying wind made no
opposition nor complaint; here were the formless specks of slowly-moving
cattle, even as he remembered them before. A momentary chill came over
him as he recalled his own perilous experience on these plains, a
momentary glow suffused his cheek as he thought of his rescue by the
lovely but cold recluse. Again he heard the name of "Philip" softly
whispered in his ears, again he felt the flood of old memories sweep
over him as he rode, even as he had felt them when he lay that day
panting upon the earth. And yet Arthur had long since convinced his mind
that he was mistaken in supposing that Donna Dolores had addressed him
at that extreme moment as "Philip;" he had long since believed it was a
trick of his disordered and exhausted brain; the conduct of Dolores
towards himself, habitually restrained by grave courtesy, never
justified him in directly asking the question, nor suggested any
familiarity that might have made it probable. She had never alluded to
it again--but had apparently forgotten it. Not so Arthur! He had often
gone over that memorable scene, with a strange, tormenting pleasure that
was almost a pain. It was the one incident of his life, for whose poetry
he was not immediately responsible--the one genuine heart-thrill whose
sincerity he had not afterwards stopped to question in his critical
fashion, the one enjoyment that had not afterwards appeared mean and
delusive. And now the heroine of this episode was missing, and he might
never perhaps see her again! And yet when he first heard the news he was
conscious of a strange sense of relief--rather let me say of an
awakening from a dream, that though delicious, had become dangerous and
might unfit him for the practical duties of his life. Donna Dolores had
never affected him as a real personage--at least the interest he felt in
her was, he had always considered, due to her relations to some romantic
condition of his mind, and her final disappearance from the plane of his
mental vision was only the exit of an actress from the mimic stage. It
seemed only natural that she should disappear as mysteriously as she
came. There was no shock even to the instincts of his ordinary
humanity--it was no catastrophe involving loss of life or even suffering
to the subject or spectator.
Such at least was Mr. Poinsett's analysis of his own mental condition
on the receipt of Donna Maria's telegram. It was the cool
self-examination of a man who believed himself cold-blooded and selfish,
superior to the weakness of ordinary humanity, and yet was conscious of
neither pride nor disgrace in the belief. Yet when he diverged from his
direct road to the Mission, and turned his horse's head toward the home
of Donna Dolores, he was conscious of a new impulse and anxiety that was
stronger than his reason. Unable as he was to resist it, he still took
some satisfaction in believing that it was nearly akin to that feeling
which years before had driven him back to Starvation Camp in quest of
the survivors. Suddenly his horse recoiled with a bound that would have
unseated a less skilful rider. Directly across his path stretched a
chasm in the level plain--thirty feet broad and as many feet in depth,
and at its bottom in undistinguishable confusion lay the wreck of the
corral of the Blessed Trinity!
Except for the enormous size and depth of this fissure Arthur might have
mistaken it for the characteristic cracks in the sunburnt plain, which
the long dry summer had wrought upon its surface, some of which were so
broad as to task the agility of his horse. But a second glance convinced
him of the different character of the phenomenon. The earth had not
cracked asunder nor separated, but had sunk. The width of the chasm
below was nearly equal to the width above; the floor of this valley in
miniature was carpeted by the same dry, brittle herbs and grasses which
grew upon the plain around him.
In the pre-occupation of the last hour he had forgotten the distance he
had traversed. He had evidently ridden faster than he had imagined. But
if this was really the corral, the walls of the Rancho should now be in
sight at the base of the mountain! He turned in that direction. Nothing
was to be seen! Only the monotonous plain stretched before him, vast
and unbroken. Between the chasm where he stood and the _falda_ of the
first low foot-hills neither roof nor wall nor ruin rose above the dull,
dead level!
An ominous chill ran through his veins, and for an instant the reins
slipped through his relaxed fingers. Good God! Could this have been what
Donna Maria meant, or had there been a later convulsion of Nature? He
looked around him. The vast, far-stretching plain, desolate and
trackless as the shining ocean beyond, took upon itself an awful
likeness to that element! Standing on the brink of the revealed
treachery of that yawning chasm, Arthur Poinsett read the fate of the
Rancho. In the storm that had stirred the depths of this motionless
level, the Rancho and its miserable inmates had _foundered_ and gone
down!
Arthur's first impulse was to push on towards the scene of the disaster,
in the vague hope of rendering some service. But the chasm before him
was impassable, and seemed to continue to the sea beyond. Then he
reflected that the catastrophe briefly told in Donna Maria's despatch
had happened twenty-four hours before, and help was perhaps useless now.
He cursed the insane impulse that had brought him here, aimlessly and
without guidance, and left him powerless even to reach the object of his
quest. If he had only gone first to the Mission, asked the advice and
assistance of Father Felipe, or learned at least the full details of the
disaster! He uttered an oath, rare to his usual calm expression, and
wheeling his horse, galloped fiercely back towards the Mission.
Night had deepened over the plain. With the going down of the sun a fog
that had been stealthily encompassing the coast-line stole with soft
step across the shining beach, dulled its lustre, and then moved slowly
and solemnly upon the plain, blotting out the Point of Pines, at first
salient with its sparkling Lighthouse, but now undistinguishable from
the grey sea above and below, until it reached the galloping horse and
its rider, and then, as it seemed to Arthur, isolated them from the rest
of the world--from even the pencilled outlines of the distant
foot-hills, that it at last sponged from the blue-grey slate before him.
At times the far-off tolling of a fog-bell came faintly to his ear, but
all sound seemed to be blotted out by the fog; even the rapid fall of
his horse's hoofs was muffled and indistinct. By degrees the impression
that he was riding in a dream overcame him, and was accepted by him
without questioning or deliberation.
It seemed to be a consistent part of the dream or vision when he
rode--or rather as it seemed to him, was borne by the fog--into the
outlying fields and lanes of the Mission. A few lights, with a nimbus of
fog around them, made the narrow street of the town appear still more
ghostly and unreal as he plunged through its obscurity towards the plaza
and church. Even by the dim grey light he could see that one of the
towers had fallen, and that the eastern wing and Refectory were a mass
of shapeless ruin. And what would at another time have excited his
surprise now only struck him as a natural part of his dream,--the church
a blaze of light and filled with thronging worshippers! Still possessed
by his strange fancy, Arthur Poinsett dismounted, led his horse beneath
the shed beside the remaining tower, and entered the building. The body
and nave of the church were intact; the outlandish paintings still hung
from the walls; the waxen effigies of the Blessed Virgin and the saints
still leaned from their niches, yellow and lank, and at the high altar
Father Felipe was officiating. As he entered a dirge broke from the
choir; he saw that the altar and its offerings were draped in black, and
in the first words uttered by the priest Arthur recognised the mass for
the dead! The feverish impatience that had filled his breast and
heightened the colour of his cheeks for the last hour was gone. He sunk
upon a bench beside one of the worshippers and buried his face in his
hands. The voice of the organ rose again faintly; the quaint-voiced
choir awoke, the fumes of incense filled the church, and the monotonous
accents of the priest fell soothingly upon his ear, and Arthur seemed to
sleep. I say seemed to sleep, for ten minutes later he came to himself
with a start as if awakening from a troubled dream, with the voice of
Padre Felipe in his ear, and the soft, caressing touch of Padre Felipe
on his shoulder. The worshippers had dispersed, the church was dark save
a few candles still burning on the high altar, and for an instant he
could not recall himself.
"I knew you would come, son," said Padre Felipe; "but where is she? Did
you bring her with you?"
"Who?" asked Arthur, striving to recall his scattered senses.
"Who? Saints preserve us, Don Arturo! She who sent for you--Donna Maria!
Did you not get her message?"
Arthur replied that he had only just arrived, and had at once hastened
to the Mission. For some reason that he was ashamed to confess he did
not say that he had tried to reach the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity,
nor did he admit that he had forgotten for the last two hours even the
existence of Donna Maria. "You were having a mass for the dead, Father
Felipe?--you have then suffered here?"
He paused anxiously, for in his then confused state of mind he doubted
how much of his late consciousness had been real or visionary.
"Mother of God," said Father Felipe, eyeing Arthur curiously. "You know
not then for whom was this mass? You know not that a saint has
gone--that Donna Dolores has at last met her reward?"
"I have heard--that is, Donna Maria's despatch said--that she was
missing," stammered Arthur, feeling, with a new and unsupportable
disbelief in himself, that his face was very pale and his voice
uncertain.
"Missing!" echoed Father Felipe, with the least trace of impatience in
his voice. "Missing! She will be found when the Rancho of the Blessed
Trinity is restored--when the ruins of the _casa_, sunk fifty feet below
the surface, are brought again to the level of the plain. Missing, Don
Arturo!--ah!--missing indeed!--for ever! always, entirely!"
Moved perhaps by something in Arthur's face, Padre Felipe sketched in a
few graphic pictures the details of the catastrophe already forecast by
Arthur. It was a repetition of the story of the sunken corral. The
earthquake had not only levelled the walls of the Rancho of the Blessed
Trinity, but had opened a grave-like chasm fifty feet below it, and none
had escaped to tell the tale. The faithful _vaqueros_ had rushed from
the trembling and undulating plain to the Rancho, only to see it topple
into a yawning abyss that opened to receive it. Don Juan, Donna Dolores,
the faithful Manuela, and Alejandro, the _major domo_, with a dozen
peons and retainers, went down with the crumbling walls. No one had
escaped. Was it not possible to dig in the ruins for the bodies? Mother
of God! had not Don Arturo been told that the earth at the second shock
had closed over the sunken ruins, burying beyond mortal resurrection all
that the Rancho contained? They were digging, but hopelessly--a dozen
men. They might--weeks hence--discover the bodies--but who knows?
The meek, fatalistic way that Father Felipe accepted the final doom of
Donna Dolores exasperated Arthur beyond bounds. In San Francisco a
hundred men would have been digging night and day in the mere chance of
recovering the buried family. Here--but Arthur remembered the sluggish,
helpless retainers of Salvatierra, the dreadful fatalism which affected
them on the occurrence of this mysterious catastrophe, even as shown in
the man before him, their accepted guide and leader--and shuddered.
Could anything be done? Could he not, with Dumphy's assistance, procure
a gang of men from San Francisco? And then came the instinct of caution,
always powerful with a nature like Arthur's. If these people, most
concerned in the loss of their friends, their relations, accepted it so
hopelessly, what right had he--a mere stranger--to interfere?
"But come, my son," said Padre Felipe, laying his large soft hand,
parentally, on Arthur's shoulder. "Come, come with me to my rooms.
Thanks to the Blessed Virgin I have still shelter and a roof to offer
you. Ah!" he added, stroking Arthur's riding-coat, and examining
critically as if he had been a large child, "what have we--what is this,
eh? You are wet with this heretic fog--eh? Your hands are cold, and your
cheeks hot. You have fatigue! Possibly--most possibly, hunger! No! No!
It is so. Come with me, come!" and drawing Arthur's passive arm through
his own, he opened the vestry door, and led him across the little
garden, choked with débris and plaster of the fallen tower, to a small
adobe building that had been the Mission schoolroom. It was now hastily
fitted up as Padre Felipe's own private apartment and meditative cell. A
bright fire burned in the low, oven-like hearth. Around the walls hung
various texts illustrating the achievement of youthful penmanship with
profound religious instruction. At the extremity of the room there was a
small organ. Midway and opposite the hearth was a deep embrasured
window--the window at which two weeks before, Mr. Jack Hamlin had
beheld the Donna Dolores. "She spent much of her time here, dear child,
in the instruction of the young," said Father Felipe, taking a huge
pinch of snuff, and applying a large red bandana handkerchief to his
eyes and nose. "It is her best monument! Thanks to her largess--and she
was ever free-handed, Don Arturo, to the Church--the foundation of the
Convent of our Lady of Sorrows, her own patron saint, thou seest here.
Thou knowest, possibly--most possibly as her legal adviser--that long
ago, by her will, the whole of the Salvatierra Estate is a benefaction
to the Holy Church, eh?"
"No, I don't!" said Arthur, suddenly, awakening with a glow of
Protestant and heretical objection that was new to him, and eyeing Padre
Felipe with the first glance of suspicion he had ever cast upon that
venerable ecclesiastic. "No, sir, I never heard any intimation or
suggestion of the kind from the late Donna Dolores. On the contrary, I
was engaged"----
"Pardon--pardon me, my son," interrupted Father Felipe, taking another
large pinch of snuff. "It is not now, scarce twenty-four hours since the
dear child was translated--not in her masses and while her virgin
strewments are not yet faded--that we will talk of this" (he blew his
nose violently). "No! All in good time--thou shalt see! But I have
something here," he continued, turning over some letters and papers in
his desk. "Something for you--possibly, most possibly, more urgent. It
is a telegraphic despatch for you, to my care."
He handed a yellow envelope to Arthur. But Poinsett's eyes were suddenly
fixed upon a card which lay upon Padre Felipe's table, and which the
Padre's search for the despatch had disclosed. Written across its face
was the name of Colonel Culpepper Starbottle of Siskiyou! "Do you know
that man?" asked Poinsett, holding the despatch unopened in his hand,
and pointing to the card.
Father Felipe took another pinch of snuff. "Possibly--most possibly! A
lawyer, I think--I think! Some business of the Church property! I have
forgotten. But your despatch, Don Arturo. What says it? It does not take
you from us? And you--only an hour here?"
Father Felipe paused, and looking up innocently, found the eyes of
Arthur regarding him gravely. The two men examined each other intently.
Arthur's eyes, at last, withdrew from the clear, unshrinking glance of
Padre Felipe, unabashed but unsatisfied. A sudden recollection of the
thousand and one scandals against the Church, and wild stories of its
far-reaching influence--a swift remembrance of the specious craft and
cunning charged upon the religious order of which Padre Felipe was a
member--scandals that he had hitherto laughed at as idle--flashed
through his mind. Conscious that he was now putting himself in a guarded
attitude before the man with whom he had always been free and outspoken,
Arthur, after a moment's embarrassment that was new to him, turned for
relief to the despatch and opened it. In an instant it drove all other
thoughts from his mind. Its few words were from Dumphy and ran,
characteristically, as follows: "Gabriel Conroy arrested for murder of
Victor Ramirez. What do you propose? Answer."
Arthur rose to his feet. "When does the up-stage pass through San
Geronimo?" he asked, hurriedly.
"At midnight!" returned Padre Felipe. "Surely, my son, you do not
intend"----
"And it is now nine o'clock," continued Arthur, consulting his watch.
"Can you procure me a fresh horse? It is of the greatest importance,
Father," he added, recovering his usual frankness.
"Ah! it is urgent!--it is a matter"----suggested the Padre, gently.
"Of life and death!" responded Arthur gravely.
Father Felipe rang a bell and gave some directions to a servant, while
Arthur, seating himself at the table, wrote an answer to the despatch.
"I can trust you to send it as soon as possible to the telegraph
office," he said, handing it to Father Felipe.
The Padre took it in his hand, but glanced anxiously at Arthur. "And
Donna Maria?" he said, hesitatingly; "you have not seen her yet! Surely
you will stop at the Blessed Fisherman, if only for a moment, eh?"
Arthur drew his riding-coat and cape over his shoulders with a
mischievous smile. "I am afraid not, Father; I shall trust to you to
explain that I was recalled suddenly, and that I had not time to call;
knowing the fascinations of your society, Father, she will not begrudge
the few moments I have spent with you."
Before Father Felipe could reply the servant entered with the
announcement that the horse was ready.
"Good-night, Father Felipe," said Arthur, pressing the priest's hands
warmly, with every trace of his former suspiciousness gone. "Good night.
A thousand thanks for the horse. In speeding the parting guest," he
added, gravely, "you have perhaps done more for the health of my soul
than you imagine--good-night. _Adios!_"
With a light laugh in his ears, the vision of a graceful, erect figure,
waving a salute from a phantom steed, an inward rush of the cold grey
fog, and muffled clatter of hoofs over the mouldy and mossy marbles in
the churchyard, Father Felipe parted from his guest. He uttered a
characteristic adjuration, took a pinch of snuff, and closing the door,
picked up the card of the gallant Colonel Starbottle and tossed it into
the fire.
But the perplexities of the holy Father ceased not with the night. At an
early hour in the morning, Donna Maria Sepulvida appeared before him at
breakfast, suspicious, indignant, and irate.
"Tell me, Father Felipe," she said, hastily, "did the Don Arturo pass
the night here?"
"Truly no, my daughter," answered the Padre, cautiously. "He was here
but for a little"----
"And he went away when?" interrupted Donna Maria.
"At nine."
"And where?" continued Donna Maria, with a rising colour.
"To San Francisco, my child; it was business of great importance--but
sit down, sit, little one! This impatience is of the devil, daughter,
you must calm yourself."
"And do you know, Father Felipe, that he went away without coming _near
me_?" continued Donna Maria, in a higher key, scarcely heeding her
ghostly confessor.
"Possibly, most possibly! But he received a despatch--it was of the
greatest importance."
"A despatch!" repeated Donna Maria, scornfully. "Truly--from whom?"
"I know not, my child," said Father Felipe, gazing at the pink cheeks,
indignant eyes, and slightly swollen eyelids of his visitor; "this
impatience--this anger is most unseemly."
"Was it from Mr. Dumphy?" reiterated Donna Maria, stamping her little
foot.
Father Felipe drew back his chair. Through what unhallowed spell had
this woman--once the meekest and humblest of wives--become the shrillest
and most shrewest of widows? Was she about to revenge herself on Arthur
for her long suffering with the late Don José? Father Felipe pitied
Arthur now and prospectively.
"Are you going to tell me?" said Donna Maria, tremulously, with alarming
symptoms of hysteria.
"I believe it was from Mr. Dumphy," stammered Padre Felipe. "At least
the answer Don Arturo gave me to send in reply--only these words, 'I
will return at once'--was addressed to Mr. Dumphy. But I know not what
was the message _he_ received."
"You don't!" said Donna Maria, rising to her feet, with white in her
cheek, fire in her eyes, and a stridulous pitch in her voice. "You
don't! Well! I will tell you! It was the same news that _this_ brought."
She took a telegraphic despatch from her pocket and shook it in the
face of Father Felipe. "There! read it! That was the news sent to
him! That was the reason why he turned and ran away like a coward as
he is! That was the reason why he never came near me, like a
perjured traitor as he is! That is the reason why he came to you
with his fastidious airs and, his supercilious smile--and
his--his--Oh, how I HATE HIM! That is why!--read it! read it!
Why don't you read it?" (She had been gesticulating with it,
waving it in the air wildly, and evading every attempt of Father
Felipe to take it from her.) "Read it! Read it and see why!
Read and see that I am ruined!--a beggar--a cajoled and tricked
and deceived woman--between these two villains, Dumphy and
Mis--ter--Arthur--Poin--sett! Ah! Read it--or are you a traitor
too? You and Dolores and all"----
She crumpled the paper in her hands, threw it on the floor, whitened
suddenly round the lips, and then followed the paper as suddenly, at
full length, in a nervous spasm at Father Felipe's feet. Father Felipe
gazed, first at the paper and then at the rigid form of his friend. He
was a man, an old one--with some experience of the sex, and I regret to
say he picked up the _paper_ first, and straightened _it_ out. It was a
telegraphic despatch in the following words:--
"Sorry to say telegram just received that earthquake has
dropped out lead of Conroy Mine! Everything gone up! Can't make
further advances or sell stock.--DUMPHY."
Father Felipe bent over Donna Maria and raised her in his arms. "Poor
little one!" he said. "But I don't think Arthur knew it."