"Colonel Starbottle would show that personating the character and taking the name of Grace Conroy, an absent sister of the accused, Mrs. Conroy, then really Madame Devarges, sought the professional aid of the impulsive and generous Ramirez to establish her right to a claim then held by the accused—in fact, wrongfully withheld from his own sister, Grace Conroy. That Ramirez, believing implicitly in the story of Madame Devarges with the sympathy of an overflowing nature, gave her that aid until her marriage with Gabriel exposed the deceit. Colonel Starbottle would not characterise the motives of such a marriage. It was apparent to the jury. They were intelligent men, and would detect the unhallowed combination of two confederates, under the sacrament of a holy institution, to deceive the trustful Ramirez. It was a nuptial feast at which—er—er—Mercury presided, and not—er—er—Hymen. Its only issue was fraud and murder. Having obtained possession of the property in a common interest, it was necessary to remove the only witness of the fraud, Ramirez. The wife found a willing instrument in the husband. And how was the deed committed? Openly and in the presence of witnesses? Did Gabriel even assume a virtue, and under the pretext of an injured husband challenge the victim to the field of honour? No! No, gentlemen. Look at the murderer, and contrast his enormous bulk with the—er—slight, graceful, youthful figure of the victim, and you will have an idea of the—er—er—enormity of the crime."
After this exordium came thetestimony—i.e., facts coloured more or less unconsciously, according to the honest prejudices of the observer, his capacity to comprehend the fact he had observed, and his disposition to give his theory regarding that fact rather than the fact itself. And when the blind had testified to what they saw, and the halt had stated where they walked and ran, the prosecution rested with a flush of triumph.
They had established severally: that the deceased had died from the effects of a knife wound; that Gabriel had previously quarrelled with him and was seen on the hill within a few hours of the murder; that he had absconded immediately after, and that his wife was still a fugitive, and that there was ample motive for the deed in the circumstances surrounding the prisoner.
Much of this was shaken on cross-examination. The surgeon who made the autopsy was unable to say whether the deceased, being consumptive, might not have died from consumption that very night. The witness who saw Gabriel pushing the deceased along the road, could not swear positively whether the deceased were not pulling Gabriel instead, and the evidence of Mrs. Conroy's imposture was hearsay only. Nevertheless bets were offered in favour of Starbottle against Poinsett—that being the form in which the interest of One Horse Gulch crystallised itself.
When the prosecution rested, Mr. Poinsett, as counsel for defence, moved for the discharge of the prisoner, no evidence having been shown of his having had any relations with or knowledge of the deceased until the day of the murder, and none whatever of his complicity with the murderess, against whom the evidence of the prosecution and the arguments of the learned prosecuting attorney were chiefly directed.
Motion overruled. A sigh of relief went up from the spectators and the jury. That any absurd technical objection should estop them from that fun which as law-abiding citizens they had a right to expect, seemed oppressive and scandalous; and when Arthur rose to open for the defence, it was with an instinctive consciousness that his audience were eyeing him as a man who had endeavoured to withdraw from a race.
Ridiculous as it seemed in reason, it was enough to excite Arthur's flagging interest and stimulate his combativeness. With ready tact he fathomed the expectation of the audience, and at once squarely joined issue with the Colonel.
Mr. Poinsett differed from his learned friend in believing this case was at all momentous or peculiar. It was a quite common one—he was sorry to say averycommon one—in the somewhat hasty administration of the law in California. He was willing to admit a peculiarity in his eloquent brother's occupying the line of attack, when his place was as clearly at his, Mr. Poinsett's side. He should overlook some irregularities in the prosecution from this fact, and from the natural confusion of a man possessing Colonel Starbottle's quick sympathies, who found himself arrayed against his principles. He should, however, relieve them from that confusion, by stating that there really was no principle involved beyond the common one of self-preservation. He was willing to admit the counsel's ingenious theory that Mrs. Conroy—who was not mentioned in the indictment, or indeed any other person not specified—had committed the deed for which his client was charged. But as they were here to try Gabriel Conroy only, he could not see the relevancy of the testimony to that fact. He should content himself with the weakness of the accusation. He should not occupy their time, butshould call at once to the stand the prisoner; the man who, the jury would remember, was now, against all legal precedent, actually, if not legally, placed again in peril of his life, in the very building which but a few days before had seen his danger and his escape.
He should call Gabriel Conroy!
There was a momentary sensation in the court. Gabriel uplifted his huge frame slowly, and walked quietly toward the witness-box. His face slightly flushed under the half-critical, half-amused gaze of the spectators, and those by whom he brushed as he made his way through the crowd noticed that his breathing was hurried. But when he reached the box, his face grew more composed, and his troubled eyes presently concentrated their light fixedly upon Colonel Starbottle. Then the clerk mumbled the oath, and he took his seat.
"What is your name?" asked Arthur.
"I reckon ye mean my real name?" queried Gabriel, with a touch of his usual apology.
"Yes, certainly, your real name, sir," replied Arthur, a little impatiently.
Colonel Starbottle pricked up his ears, and lifting his eyes, met Gabriel's dull, concentrated fires full in his own.
Gabriel then raised his eyes indifferently to the ceiling. "My real name—my genooine name—is Johnny Dumbledee, J-o-n-n-y, Johnny, D-u-m-b-i-l-d-e, Johnny Dumbledee!"
There was a sudden thrill, and then a stony silence. Arthur and Maxwell rose to their feet at the same moment. "What?" said both those gentlemen, sharply, in one breath.
"Johnny Dumbledee," repeated Gabriel, slowly and with infinite deliberation; "Johnny Dumbledee ez my real name. I hev frequent," he added, turning around in easy confidence to the astonished Judge Boompointer, "I hev frequentallowed I was Gabriel Conroy—the same not being the truth. And the woman ez I married—hername was Grace Conroy, and the heap o' lies ez thet old liar over thar" (he indicated the gallant Colonel Starbottle with his finger) "hez told passes my pile! Thet woman, my wife ez was and ez—waz Grace Conroy." (To the Colonel, gravely:) "You hear me! And the only imposture, please your Honour and this yer Court, and you gentl'men, was ME!"
The utter and complete astonishment created by Gabriel's reply was so generally diffused that the equal participation of Gabriel's own counsel in this surprise was unobserved. Maxwell would have risen again hurriedly, but Arthur laid his hand on his shoulder.
"The man his gone clean mad!—this is suicide," whispered Maxwell, excitedly. "We must get him off the stand. You must explain!"
"Hush!" said Arthur, quietly. "Not a word! Show any surprise and we're lost!"
In another instant all eyes were fixed upon Arthur, who had remained standing, outwardly calm. There was but one idea dominant in the audience. What revelation would the next question bring? The silence became almost painful as Arthur quietly and self-containedly glanced around the Court-room and at the jury, as if coolly measuring the effect of a carefully-planned dramatic sensation. Then, when every neck was bent forward and every ear alert, Arthur turned nonchalantly yet gracefully to the bench.
"We have no further questions to ask, your Honour," he said, quietly, and sat down.
The effect of this simple, natural, and perfectly consistent action was tremendous! In the various triumphs of Arthur's successful career, he felt that he had never achieved as universal and instantaneous popularity. Gabriel was forgotten; the man who had worked up this sensation—a sensation whose darkly mysterious bearing upon the case no one could fathom, or even fared to fathom, but a sensation that each man confidently believed held the whole secret of the crime—this man was the hero! Had it been suggested, the jury would have instantly given a verdict for this hero's client without leaving their seats. The betting was two to one on Arthur. I beg to observe that I am writing of men, impulsive, natural, and unfettered in expression and action by any tradition of logic or artificial law—a class of beings much idealised by poets, and occasionally, I believe, exalted by latter-day philosophers.
Judge Boompointer looked at Colonel Starbottle. That gentleman, completely stunned and mystified by the conduct of the defence, fumbled his papers, coughed, expanded his chest, rose, and began the cross-examination.
"You have said your name was—er—er—Johnny—er—er—(the Colonel was here obliged to consult his papers)—er—John Dumbledee. What was your idea, Mr. Dumbledee, in—er—assuming the name of—er—er—Gabriel Conroy?"
Objected to by counsel for defence. Argument:—Firstly, motives, like beliefs, not admissible; case cited, Higginbottomv.Smithers. Secondly, not called out on Direct Ex.; see Swinkev.Swanke, opinion of Muggins, J., 2 Cal. Rep. Thirdly, witness not obliged to answer questions tending to self-crimination. Objection overruled by the Court. Precedent not cited; real motive, Curiosity. Boompointer, J. Question repeated:—
"What was your idea or motive in assuming the name of Gabriel Conroy?"
Gabriel (cunningly, and leaning confidentially over the arm of his chair): "Wot would beyouridee of a motif?"
The witness, amidst much laughter, was here severely instructed by the Court that the asking of questions was not the function of a witness. The witness must answer.
Gabriel: "Well, Gabriel Conroy was a purty name—the name of a man ez I onst knew ez died in Starvation Camp. It kinder came easy, ez a sort o' interduckshun, don't ye see, Jedge, toe his sister Grace, ez was my wife. I kinder reckon, between you and me, ez thet name sorter helped the courtin' along—she bein' a shy critter, outer her own fammerly."
Question: "In your early acquaintance with the deceased, were you not known to him as Gabriel Conroy always, and not as—er—er—Johnny Dumbledee?"
Arthur Poinsett here begged to call the attention of the Court to the fact that it had not yet been shown that Gabriel—that is Johnny Dumbledee—has ever had anyearlyacquaintance with the deceased. The Court would not fail to observe that counsel on the direct examination had restricted themselves to a simple question—the name of the prisoner.
Objection sustained by Judge Boompointer, who was beginning to be anxious to get at the facts. Whereat Colonel Starbottle excepted, had no more questions to ask, and Gabriel was commanded to stand aside.
Betting now five to one on Arthur Poinsett; Gabriel's hand, on leaving the witness box, shaken cordially by a number of hitherto disinterested people. Hurried consultation between defendant's counsel. A note handed to Colonel Starbottle. Intense curiosity manifested by Manuela and Sal regarding a closely veiled female, who enters a moment later, and is conducted with an excess ofcourtesy to a seat by the gallant Colonel. General impatience of audience and jury.
The defence resumed. Michael O'Flaherty called; nativity, County Kerry, Ireland. Business, miner. On the night of the murder, while going home from work, met deceased on Conroy's Hill, dodging in among the trees, for all the wurreld like a thafe. A few minutes later overtook Gabriel Conroy half a mile farther on, on the same road, going in same direction as witness, and walked with him to Lawyer Maxwell's office. Cross examined: Is naturalised. Always voted the Dimmycratic ticket. Was always opposed to the Government—bad cess to it—in the ould counthry, and isn't thet mane to go back on his principles here. Doesn't know that a Chinaman has affirmed to the same fact of Gabriel'salibi. Doesn't know what analibiis; thinks he would if he saw it. Believes a Chinaman is worse nor a nigger. Has noticed that Gabriel was left-handed.
Amadee Michet, sworn for defence; nativity, France. Business, foreman ofLa Parfait Union. Frequently walks to himself in the beautiful grove on Conroy's Hill. Comes to him on the night of the 15th, Gabriel Conroy departing from his house. It is then seven hours, possibly more, not less. The night is fine. This Gabriel salutes him in the American fashion, and is gone. Eastward. Ever to the east. Watches M. Conroy because he wears atristelook, as if there were great sadnesshere(in the breast of the witness' blouse). Sees him vanish in the gulch. Returns to the hill and there overhears voices, a man's and a woman's. The woman's voice is that of Madame Conroy. The man's voice is to him strange and not familiar. Will swear positively it was not Gabriel's. Remains on the hill about an hour. Did not see Gabriel again. Saw a man and woman leave the hill and pass by the Wingdam road as he was going home. To the best of his belief the womanwas Mrs. Conroy. Do not know the man. Is positive it was not Gabriel Conroy. Why? Eh! Mon Dieu, is it possible that one should mistake a giant?
Cross examined. Is a patriot—do not know what is this Democrat you call. Is a hater of aristocrats. Do not know if the deceased was an aristocrat. Was not enraged with Madame Conroy. Never made love to her. Was not jilted by her. This is all what you call too theen, eh? Has noticed that the prisoner was left-handed.
Helling Dittmann; nativity, Germany. Does not know the deceased; does know Gabriel. Met him the night of the 15th on the road from Wingdam; thinks it was after eight o'clock. He was talking to a Chinaman.
Cross examined. Has not been told that these are the facts stated by the Chinaman. Believes a Chinaman as good as any other man. Don't know what you mean. How comes dese dings? Has noticed the prisoner used his left hand efery dime.
Dr. Pressnitz recalled. Viewed the body at nine o'clock on the 16th. The blood-stains on the linen and the body had been slightly obliterated and diluted with water, as if they had been subjected to a watery application. There was an unusually heavy dew at seven o'clock that evening, not later. Has kept a meteorological record for the last three years. Is of the opinion that this saturation might be caused by dew falling on a clot of coagulated blood. The same effect would not be noticeable on a freshly bleeding wound. The hygrometer showed no indication of a later fall of dew. The night was windy and boisterous after eight o'clock, with no humidity. Is of the opinion that the body, as seen by him, first assumed its position before eight o'clock. Would not swear positively that the deceased expired before that time. Would swear positively that the wounds were not received after eight o'clock. From theposition of the wound, should say it was received while the deceased was in an upright position, and the arm raised as if in struggling. From the course of the wound should say it could not have been dealt from the left hand of an opponent. On the cross examination, Dr. Pressnitz admitted that many so-called "left-handed men" were really ambidexterous. Was of the opinion that perspiration wouldnothave caused the saturation of the dead man's linen. The saturation was evidently after death—the blood had clotted. Dr. Pressnitz was quite certain that a dead man did not perspire.
The defence rested amid a profound sensation. Colonel Starbottle, who had recovered his jaunty spirits, apparently influenced by his animated and gallant conversation with the veiled female, rose upon his short stubby feet, and withdrawing his handkerchief from his breast, laid it upon the table before him. Then carefully placing the ends of two white pudgy fingers upon it, Colonel Starbottle gracefully threw his whole weight upon their tips, and leaning elegantly toward the veiled figure, called "Grace Conroy."
The figure arose, slight, graceful, elegant; hesitated a moment, and then slipped a lissom shadow through the crowd, as a trout glides through a shallow, and before the swaying, moving mass had settled to astonished rest, stood upon the witness-stand. Then with a quick dexterous movement she put aside the veil, that after the Spanish fashion was both bonnet and veil, and revealed a face so exquisitely beautiful and gracious, that even Manuela and Sal were awed into speechless admiration. She took the oath with downcast lids, whose sweeping fringes were so perfect that this very act of modesty seemed to the two female critics as the most artistic coquetry, and then raised her dark eyes and fixed them upon Gabriel.
Colonel Starbottle waved his hand with infinite gallantry.
"What is—er—your name?"
"Grace Conroy."
"Have you a brother by the name of Gabriel Conroy?"
"I have."
"Look around the Court and see if you can recognise him."
The witness with her eyes still fixed on Gabriel pointed him out with her gloved finger. "I do. He is there!"
"The prisoner at the bar?"
"Yes."
"He is Gabriel Conroy?"
"He is."
"How long is it since you have seen him?"
"Six years."
"Where did you see him last, and under what circumstances?"
"At Starvation Camp, in the Sierras. I left there to get help for him and my sister."
"And you have never seen him since?"
"Never!"
"Are you aware that among the—er—er—unfortunates who perished, a body that was alleged to be yours was identified?"
"Yes."
"Can you explain that circumstance?"
"Yes. When I left I wore a suit of boy's clothes. I left my own garments for Mrs. Peter Dumphy, one of our party. It was her body, clothed in my garments, that was identified as myself."
"Have you any proof of that fact other than your statement?"
"Yes. Mr. Peter Dumphy, the husband of Mrs. Dumphy, my brother Gabriel Conroy, and"——
"May it please the Court" (the voice was ArthurPoinsett's, cool, quiet, and languidly patient), "may it please the Court, we of the defence—to save your Honour and the jury some time and trouble—are willing to admit this identification of our client as Gabriel Conroy, and the witness, without further corroboration than her own word, as his sister. Your Honour and the gentlemen of the jury will not fail to recognise in the evidence of our client as to his own name and origin, a rash, foolish, and, on behalf of myself and my colleague, I must add, unadvised attempt to save the reputation of the wife he deeply loves from the equally unadvised and extraneous evidence brought forward by the prosecution. But we must insist, your Honour, that all this is impertinent to the real issue, the killing of Victor Ramirez by John Doe,aliasGabriel Conroy. Admitting the facts just testified to by the witness, Grace Conroy, we have no cross examination to make."
The fact of the witness, which had been pale and self-possessed, flushed suddenly as she turned her eyes upon Arthur Poinsett. But that self-contained scamp retained an unmoved countenance as, at Judge Boompointer's unusually gracious instruction that the witness might retire, Grace Conroy left the stand. To a question from the Court, Colonel Starbottle intimated that he should offer no further evidence in rebuttal.
"May it please the Court," said Arthur, quietly, "if we accept the impeachment by a sister of a brother on trial for his life, without comment or cross examination, it is because we are confident—legally confident—of showing the innocence of that brother by other means. Recognising the fact that this trial is not for the identification of the prisoner under any name oralias, but simply upon the issue of the fact whether he did or did not commit murder upon the body of Victor Ramirez, as specified in the indictment, we now, waiving all other issues, prepare to prove his innocenceby a single witness. That this witness was not produced earlier, was unavoidable; that his testimony was not outlined in the opening, was due to the fact that only within the last half-hour had he been within the reach of the mandate of this Court. He would call Henry Perkins!"
There was a slight stir among the spectators by the door as they made way to a quaint figure that, clad in garments of a bygone fashion, with a pale, wrinkled, yellow face, and grey hair, from which the dye had faded, stepped upon the stand.
Is a translator of Spanish and searcher of deeds to the Land Commission. Is called an expert. Recognises the prisoner at the bar. Saw him only once, two days before the murder, in passing over Conroy's Hill. He was sitting on the doorstep of a deserted cabin with a little girl by his side. Saw the deceased twice. Once when he came to Don Pedro's house in San Francisco to arrange for the forgery of a grant that should invalidate one already held by the prisoner's wife. Saw the deceased again, after the forgery, on Conroy's Hill, engaged in conversation with the prisoner's wife. Deceased appeared to be greatly excited, and suddenly drew a knife and made an attack upon the prisoner's wife. Witness reached forward and interposed in defence of the woman, when the deceased turned upon him in a paroxysm of insane rage, and a struggle took place between them for the possession of the knife, witness calling for help. Witness did not succeed in wresting the knife from the hands of deceased; it required all his strength to keep himself from bodily harm. In the midst of the struggle witness heard steps approaching, and again called for help.
The witness' call was responded to by a voice in broken English, unintelligible to witness, apparently the voice of a Chinaman. At the sound of the voice and the approach of footsteps, the deceased broke from witness, and runningbackward a few steps, plunged the knife into his own breast and fell. Witness ran to his side and again called for help. Deceased turned upon him with a ghastly smile and said, "Bring any one here and I'll accuse you before them of my murder!" Deceased did not speak again, but fell into a state of insensibility. Witness became alarmed, reflecting upon the threat of the deceased, and did not go for help. While standing irresolutely by the body, Mrs. Conroy, the prisoner's wife, came upon him. Confessed to her the details just described, and the threat of the deceased. She advised the instant flight of the witness, and offered to go with him herself. Witness procured a horse and buggy from a livery stable, and at half-past nine at night took Mrs. Conroy from the hillside near the road, where she was waiting. Drove to Markleville that night, where he left her under an assumed name, and came alone to San Francisco and the Mission of San Antonio. Here he learned from the last witness, the prisoner's sister, Grace Conroy, of the arrest of her brother for murder. Witness at once returned to One Horse Gulch, only to find the administration of justice in the hands of a Vigilance Committee. Feeling that his own life might be sacrificed without saving the prisoner's, he took refuge in a tunnel on Conroy's Hill. It chanced to be the same tunnel which Gabriel Conroy and his friend afterwards sought in escaping from the Vigilance Committee after the earthquake. Witness, during the absence of Gabriel, made himself known to Mr. Jack Hamlin, Gabriel's friend and comrade in flight, and assured him of the witness's intention to come forward whenever a fair trial could be accorded to Gabriel. After the re-arrest and bailing of Gabriel, witness returned to San Francisco to procure evidence regarding the forged grant, and proofs of Ramirez's persecution of Mrs. Conroy. Had brought with him the knife, and had found the cutler who sold it todeceased eight months before, when deceased first meditated an assault on Mrs. Conroy. Objected to, and objection overruled by a deeply interested and excited Court.
"That is all," said Arthur.
Colonel Starbottle, seated beside Grace Conroy, did not, for a moment, respond to the impatient eyes of the audience in the hush that followed. It was not until Grace Conroy whispered a few words in his ear, that the gallant Colonel lifted his dilated breast and self-complacent face above the level of the seated counsel.
"What—er—er—was the reason—why did the—er—er—deeply anxious wife, who fled with you, and thus precipitated the arrest of her husband—why did not she return with you to clear him from suspicion? Why does she remain absent?"
"She was taken ill—dangerously ill at Markleville. The excitement and fatigue of the journey had brought on premature confinement. A child was born"——
There was a sudden stir among the group beside the prisoner's chair. Colonel Starbottle, with a hurried glance at Grace Conroy, waved his hand toward the witness and sat down. Arthur Poinsett rose. "We ask a moment's delay, your Honour. The prisoner has fallen in a fit."
When Gabriel opened his eyes to consciousness, he was lying on the floor of the jury room, his head supported by Olly, and a slight, graceful, womanly figure, that had been apparently bending over him, in the act of slowly withdrawing from his awakening gaze. It was his sister Grace.
"Thar, you're better now," said Olly, taking her brother's hand, and quietly ignoring her sister, on whom Gabriel'seyes were still fixed. "Try and raise yourself inter this chair. Thar—thar now—that's a good old Gabe—thar! I reckon you're more comfortable!"
"It's Gracey!" whispered Gabriel, hoarsely, with his eyes still fixed upon the slight, elegantly dressed woman, who now, leaning against the doorway, stood coldly regarding him. "It's Gracey—your sister, Olly!"
"Ef you mean the woman who hez been tryin' her best to swar away your life, and kem here allowin' to do it—she ain't no sister o' mine—not," added Olly, with a withering glance at the simple elegance of her sister's attire, "not even ef she does trapse in yer in frills and tuckers—more shame for her!"
"If you mean," said Grace, coldly, "the girl whose birthright you took away by marrying the woman who stole it, if you mean the girl who rightfully bears the name that you denied, under oath, in the very shadow of the gallows, she claims nothing of you but her name."
"Thet's so," said Gabriel, simply. He dropped his head between his great hands, and a sudden tremor shook his huge frame.
"Ye ain't goin' to be driv inter histeriks agin along o' that crockidill," said Olly, bending over her brother in alarm. "Don't ye—don't ye cry, Gabe!" whimpered Olly, as a few drops oozed between Gabriel's fingers; "don't ye take on, darling,afore her!"
The two sisters glared at each other over the helpless man between them. Then another woman entered who looked sympathetically at Gabriel and then glared at them both. It was Mrs Markle. At which, happily for Gabriel, the family bickering ceased.
"It's all over, Gabriel! you're clar!" said Mrs. Markle, ignoring the sympathies as well as the presence of the two other ladies. "Here's Mr. Poinsett."
He entered quickly, but stopped and flushed slightly under the cold eyes of Grace Conroy. But only for a moment. Coming to Gabriel's side, he said, kindly, "Gabriel, I congratulate you. The acting District Attorney has entered anolle prosequi, and you are discharged."
"Ye mean I kin go?" said Gabriel, suddenly lifting his face.
"Yes. You are as free as air."
"And ez toher?" asked Gabriel, quickly.
"Who do you mean?" replied Arthur, involuntarily glancing in the direction of Grace, whose eyes dropped scornfully before him.
"My wife—July—issheclar too?"
"As far as this trial is concerned, yes," returned Arthur, with a trifle less interest in his voice, which Gabriel was quick to discern.
"Then I'll go," said Gabriel, rising to his feet. He made a few steps to the door and then hesitated, stopped, and turned toward Grace. As he did so his old apologetic, troubled, diffident manner returned.
"Ye'll exkoos me, miss," he said, looking with troubled eyes upon his newly-found sister, "ye'll exkoos me, ef I haven't the time now to do the agreeable and show ye over yer property on Conroy's Hill. But it's thar! It's all thar, ez Lawyer Maxwell kin testify. It's all thar and the house is open, ez it always was to ye, ez the young woman who keeps the house kin tell ye. I'd go thar with ye ef I hed time, but I'm startin' out now, to-night, to see July. To see my wife, Miss Conroy, to see July ez is expectin'! And I reckon thar'll be a baby—a pore little, helpless newborn baby—onysolong!" added Gabriel, exhibiting his forefinger as a degree of mensuration; "and ez a fammerly man, being ladies, I reckon you reckon I oughter be thar." (I grieve to state that at this moment the ladies appealed toexchanged a glance of supreme contempt, and am proud to record that Lawyer Maxwell and Mr. Poinsett exhibited the only expression of sympathy with the speaker that was noticeable in the group.)
Arthur detected it and said, I fear none the less readily for that knowledge—
"Don't let us keep you, Gabriel; we understand your feelings. Go at once."
"Take me along, Gabe," said Olly, flashing her eyes at her sister, and then turning to Gabriel with a quivering upper lip.
Gabriel turned, swooped his tremendous arm around Olly, lifted her bodily off her feet, and saying, "You're my own little girl," vanished through the doorway.
This movement reduced the group to Mrs. Markle and Grace Conroy, confronted by Mr. Poinsett and Maxwell. Mrs. Markle relieved an embarrassing silence by stepping forward and taking the arm of Lawyer Maxwell and leading him away. Arthur and Grace were left alone.
For the first time in his life Arthur lost his readiness and self-command. He glanced awkwardly at the woman before him, and felt that neither conventional courtesy nor vague sentimental recollection would be effective here.
"I am waiting for my maid," said Grace, coldly; "if, as you return to the Court-room, you will send her here, you will oblige me."
Arthur bowed confusedly.
"Your maid"——
"Yes; you know her, I think, Mr. Poinsett," continued Grace, lifting her arched brows with cold surprise. "Manuela!"
Arthur turned pale and red. He was conscious of being not only awkward but ridiculous.
"Pardon me—perhaps I am troubling you—I will go myself," said Grace, contemptuously.
"One moment, Miss Conroy," said Arthur, instinctively stepping before her as she moved as if to pass him, "one moment, I beg." He paused, and then said, with less deliberation and more impulsively than had been his habit for the last six years, "You will, perhaps, be more forgiving to your brother if you know that I, who have had the pleasure of meeting you since—you were lost to us all—I, who have not had his pre-occupation of interest in another—even I, have been as blind, as foolish, as seemingly heartless as he. You will remember this, Miss Conroy—I hope quite as much for its implied compliment to your complete disguise, and an evidence of the success of your own endeavours to obliterate your identity, as for its being an excuse for your brother's conduct, if not for my own.Idid not know you."
Grace Conroy paused and raised her dark eyes to his.
"You spoke of my brother's pre-occupation with—with the woman for whom he would have sacrificed anything—me—his very life! I can—I am a woman—I can understandthat! You have forgotten, Don Arturo, you have forgotten—pardon me—I am not finding fault—it is not for me to find fault—but you have forgotten—Donna Maria Sepulvida!"
She swept by him with a rustle of silk and lace, and was gone. His heart gave a sudden bound; he was about to follow her, when he was met at the door by the expanding bosom of Colonel Starbottle.
"Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, as a man of—er—er—er—honour! to congratulate you, sir! When we—er—er—parted in San Francisco I did not think that I would have the—er—er—pleasure—a rare pleasure to Colonel Starbottle, sir, in his private as well as his—er—er—public capacity, of—er—er—aPUBLIC APOLOGY. Ged, sir! I have made it! Ged, sir! when I entered thatnolle pros., I saidto myself, 'Star., this is an apology—an apology, sir! But you are responsible, sir, you are responsible, Star.! personally responsible!'"
"I thank you," said Arthur, abstractedly, still straining his eyes after the retreating figure of Grace Conroy, and trying to combat a sudden instinctive jealously of the man before him, "I thank you, Colonel, on behalf of my client and myself."
"Ged, sir," said Colonel Starbottle, blocking up the way, with a general expansiveness of demeanour, "Ged, sir, this is not all. You will remember that our recent interview in San Francisco was regarding another and a different issue. That, sir, I am proud to say, the developments of evidence in this trial have honourably and—er—er—as a lawyer, I may say, have legally settled. With the—er—er—identification and legal—er—er—rehabilitation of Grace Conroy, that claim of my client falls to the ground. You may state to your client, Mr. Poinsett, that—er—er—upon my own personal responsibility I abandon the claim."
Arthur Poinsett stopped and looked fixedly at the gallant Colonel. Even in his sentimental pre-occupation the professional habit triumphed.
"You withdraw Mrs. Dumphy's claim upon Mr. Dumphy?" he said, slowly.
Colonel Starbottle did not verbally reply, but that gallant warrior allowed the facial muscles on the left side of his face to relax so that one eye was partially closed.
"Yes, sir,—there is a matter of a few thousand dollars that—er—er—you understand, I am—er—er—personally responsible for."
"That will never be claimed, Colonel Starbottle," said Arthur, smiling, "and I am only echoing, I am sure, the sentiments of the man most concerned, who is approaching us—Mr. Dumphy."
Mr. Jack Hamlin was in very bad case. When Dr. Duchesne, who had been summoned from Sacramento, arrived, that eminent surgeon had instantly assumed such light-heartedness and levity toward his patient, such captiousness toward Pete, with an occasional seriousness of demeanour when he was alone, that, to those who knew him, it was equal to an unfavourable prognosis. Indeed, he evaded the direct questioning of Olly, who had lately constituted herself a wondrously light-footed, soft-handed assistant of Pete, until one day, when they were alone, he asked more seriously than was his wont if Mr. Hamlin had ever spoken of his relations, or if she knew of any of his friends who were accessible.
Olly had already turned this subject over in her womanly mind, and had thought once or twice of writing to the Blue Moselle, but on the direct questioning of the doctor, and its peculiar significance, she recalled Jack's confidences on their midnight ride, and the Spanish beauty he had outlined; and so one evening, when she was alone with her patient, and the fever was low, and Jack lay ominously patient and submissive, she began—what the doctor had only lately abandoned—probing a half-healed wound.
"I reckon you'd hev been a heap more comfortable ef this thing hed happened to ye down thar in San Antonio," said Olly.
Jack rolled his dark eyes wonderingly upon his fair persecutor.
"You know you'd hev had thet thar sweetheart o' yours—thet Mexican woman—sittin' by ye, instead o' me—and Pete," suggested the artful Olympia.
Jack nearly leaped from the bed.
"Do you reckon I'd hev rung myself in as a wandering cripple—a tramp thet hed got peppered—on a lady likeher? Look yer, Olly," continued Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on his elbow, "if you've got the idea thet thet woman is one of them hospital sharps—one of them angels who waltz round a sick man with a bottle of camphor in one hand and a tract in the other—you had better disabuse your mind of it at once, Miss Conroy; take a back seat and wait for a new deal. And don't you go to talkin' of thet lady as my sweetheart—it's—it's—sacrilegious—and the meanest kind of a bluff."
As the day of the trial drew near, Mr. Hamlin had expressed but little interest in it, and had evidently only withheld his general disgust of Gabriel's weakness from consideration of his sister. Once Mr. Hamlin condescended to explain his apparent coldness.
"There's a witness coming, Olly, that'll clear your brother—more shame for him—the man ezdidkill Ramirez. I'm keeping my sympathies for that chap. Don't you be alarmed. If that man don't come up to the scratch I will. So—don't you go whining round. And ef you'll take my advice, you'll keep clear o' that Court, and let them lawyers fight it out. It will be time enough for you to go when they send forme."
"But you can't move—you ain't strong enough," said Olly.
"I reckon Pete will get me there some way, if he has to pack me on his back. I ain't a heavy weight now," said Jack, looking sadly at his thin white hands; "I've reckoned on that, and even if I should pass in my checks, there's an affidavit already sworn to in Maxwell's hands."
Nevertheless, on the day of the trial, Olly, still doubtful of Gabriel, and still mindful of his capacity to develop"God-forsaken mulishness," was nervous and uneasy, until a messenger arrived from Maxwell with a note to Hamlin, carrying the tidings of the appearance of Perkins in Court, and closing with a request for Olly's presence.
"Who's Perkins?" asked Olly, as she reached for her hat in nervous excitement.
"He's no slouch," said Jack, sententiously. "Don't ask questions. It's all right with Gabriel now," he added, assuringly. "He's as good as clear. Run away, Miss Conroy. Hold up a minit! There, kiss me! Look here, Olly, say!—do you take any stock in that lost sister of yours that your fool of a brother is always gabbing about? You do? Well, you are as big a fool as he. There! There!—never mind now—she's turned up at last! Much good may it do you. One! two!—go!" and as Olly's pink ribbons flashed through the doorway, Mr. Hamlin lay down again with a twinkle in his eye.
He was alone. The house was very quiet and still; most of the guests, and the hostess and her assistant, were at the all-absorbing trial; even the faithful Pete, unconscious of any possible defection of his assistant, Olly, had taken the opportunity to steal away to hear the arguments of counsel. As the retreating footsteps of Olly echoed along the vacant corridor, he felt that he possessed the house completely.
This consciousness to a naturally active man, bored by illness and the continuous presence of attendants, however kind and devoted, was at first a relief. Mr. Hamlin experienced an instant desire to get up and dress himself, to do various things which were forbidden—but which now an overruling Providence had apparently placed within his reach. He rose with great difficulty, and a physical weakness that seemed altogether inconsistent with the excitement he was then feeling, and partially dressed himself.Then he was suddenly overtaken with great faintness and vertigo, and struggling to the open window, fell in a chair beside it. The cool breeze revived him for a moment, and he tried to rise, but found it impossible. Then the faintness and vertigo returned, and he seemed to be slipping away somewhere—not altogether unpleasantly, nor against his volition—somewhere where there was darkness and stillness and rest. And then he slipped back, almost instantly as it seemed to him, to a room full of excited and anxious people, all extravagantly, and as he thought, ridiculously concerned about himself. He tried to assure them that he was all right, and not feeling any worse for his exertion, but was unable to make them understand him. Then followed Night, replete with pain, and filled with familiar voices that spoke unintelligibly, and then Day, devoted to the monotonous repetition of the last word or phrase that the doctor, or Pete, or Olly had used, or the endless procession of Olly's pink ribbons, and the tremulousness of a window curtain, or the black, sphinx-like riddle of a pattern on the bed-quilt or the wall-paper. Then there was sleep that was turbulent and conscious, and wakefulness that was lethargic and dim, and then infinite weariness, and then lapses of utter vacuity—the occasional ominous impinging of the shadow of death.
But through this chaos there was always a dominant central figure—a figure partly a memory, and, as such, surrounded by consistent associations; partly a reality and incongruous with its surroundings—the figure of Donna Dolores! But whether this figure came back to Mr. Hamlin out of the dusky arches of the Mission Church in a cloud of incense, besprinkling him with holy water, or whether it bent over him, touching his feverish lips with cool drinks, or smoothing his pillow, a fact utterly unreal and preposterous seen against the pattern of the wall-paper,or sitting on the familiar chair by his bedside—it was always there. And when, one day, the figure stayed longer, and the interval of complete consciousness seemed more protracted, Mr. Hamlin, with one mighty effort, moved his lips, and said feebly—
"Donna Dolores!"
The figure started, leaned its beautiful face, blushing a celestial rosy red, above his own, put its finger to its perfect lips, and said in plain English—
"Hush! I am Gabriel Conroy's sister."
With his lips sealed by the positive mandate of the lovely spectre, Mr. Hamlin resigned himself again to weakness and sleep. When he awoke, Olly was sitting by his bedside; the dusky figure of Pete, spectacled and reading a good book, was dimly outlined against the window—but that was all. The vision—if vision it was—had fled.
"Olly," said Mr. Hamlin, faintly.
"Yes!" said Olly, opening her eyes in expectant sympathy.
"How long have I been dr—I mean how long has this—spell lasted?"
"Three days," said Olly.
"The —— you say!" (A humane and possibly weak consideration for Mr. Hamlin in his new weakness and suffering restricts me to a mere outline of his extravagance of speech.)
"But you're better now," supplemented Olly.
Mr. Hamlin began to wonder faintly if his painful experience of the last twenty-four hours were a part of his convalsecence.He was silent for a few moments and then suddenly turned his face toward Olly.
"Didn't you say something about—about—your sister, the other day?"
"Yes—she's got back," said Olly, curtly.
"Here?"
"Here."
"Well?" said Mr. Hamlin, a little impatiently.
"Well," returned Olly, with a slight toss of her curls, "she's got back and I reckon it's about time she did."
Strange to say, Olly's evident lack of appreciation of her sister seemed to please Mr. Hamlin—possibly because it agreed with his own idea of Grace's superiority and his inability to recognise or accept her as the sister of Gabriel.
"Where has she been all this while?" asked Jack, rolling his large hollow eyes over Olly.
"Goodness knows! Says she's bin livin' in some fammerly down in the South—Spanish, I reckon; thet's whar she gits those airs and graces."
"Has she ever been here—in this room?" asked Mr. Hamlin.
"Of course she has," said Olly. "When I left you to go with Gabe to see his wife at Wingdam, she volunteered to take my place. Thet waz while you waz flighty, Mr. Hamlin. But I reckon she admired to stay here on account of seein' her bo!"
"Her what?" asked Mr. Hamlin, feeling the blood fast rushing to his colourless face.
"Her bo," repeated Olly, "thet thar Ashley, or Poinsett—or whatever he calls hisself now!"
Mr. Hamlin here looked so singular, and his hand tightened so strongly around Olly's, that she hurriedly repeated to him the story of Grace's early wanderings, and her absorbing passion for their former associate, Arthur Poinsett.The statement was, in Olly's present state of mind, not favourable to Grace. "And she just came up yer only to see Arthur agin. Thet's all. And she nearly swearin' her brother's life away—and pretendin' it was only done to save the fammerly name. Jest ez if it hed been any more comfortable fur Gabriel to have been hung in his own name. And then goin' and accusin' thet innocent ole lamb, Gabe, of conspiring with July to take her name away. Purty goin's on, I reckon. And thet man Poinsett, by her own showin'—never lettin' on to see her nor us—nor anybody. And she sassin'mefor givin' my opinion of him—and excusin' him by sayin' she didn't want him to knowwharshe was. And she refusin' to see July at all—and pore July lyin' thar at Wingdam, sick with a new baby. Don't talk to me about her!"
"But your sister didn't run away with—with—this chap. She went away to bring you help," interrupted Jack, hastily dragging Olly back to earlier history.
"Did she? Couldn't she trust her bo to go and get help and then come back fur her?—reckonin' he cared for her at all. No, she waz thet crazy after him she couldn't trust him outer her sight—and she left the camp and Gabe and ME for him. And then the idee ofhertalking to Gabriel about bein' disgraced by July. Ez ef she had never done anythin' to spile her own name, and puttin' on such airs and"——
"Dry up!" shouted Mr. Hamlin, turning with sudden savageness upon his pillow. "Dry up!—don't you see you're driving me half-crazy with your infernal buzzing?" He paused, as Olly stopped in mingled mortification and alarm, and then added in milder tones, "There, that'll do. I am not feeling well to-day. Send Dr. Duchesne to me if he's here. Stop one moment—there! good-bye, go!"
Olly had risen promptly. There was always somethingin Mr. Hamlin's positive tones that commanded an obedience that she would have refused to any other. Thoroughly convinced of some important change in Mr. Hamlin's symptoms, she sought the doctor at once. Perhaps she brought with her some of her alarm and anxiety, for a moment later that distinguished physician entered with less deliberation than was his habit. He walked to the bedside of his patient, and would have taken his hand, but Jack slipped his tell-tale pulse under the covers, and looking fixedly at the doctor, said—
"Can I be moved from here?"
"You can, but I should hardly advise"——
"I didn't ask that. This is a lone hand I'm playin', doctor, and if I'm euchred, tain't your fault. How soon?"
"I should say," said Dr. Duchesne, with professional caution, "that if no bad symptoms supervene" (he made here a half habitual but wholly ineffectual dive for Jack's pulse), "you might go in a week."
"I must gonow!"
Dr. Duchesne bent over his patient. He was a quick as well as a patiently observing man, and he saw something in Jack's face that no one else had detected. Seeing this he said, "You can go now, at a great risk—the risk of your life."
"I'll take it!" said Mr. Hamlin, promptly. "I've been playin' agin odds," he added, with a faint but audacious smile, "for the last six months, and it's no time to draw out now. Go on, tell Pete to pack up and get me ready."
"Where are you going?" asked the doctor, quietly, still gazing at his patient.
"To!—blank!" said Mr. Hamlin, impulsively. Then recognising the fact that in view of his having travelling companions, some more definite and practicable locality was necessary, he paused a moment, and said, "To the Mission of San Antonio."
"Very well," said the doctor, gravely.
Strange to say, whether from the doctor's medication, or from the stimulus of some reserved vitality hitherto unsuspected, Mr. Hamlin from that moment rallied. The preparations for his departure were quickly made, and in a few hours he was ready for the road.
"I don't want to have anybody cacklin' around me," he said, in deprecation of any leave-taking. "I leave the board, they can go on with the game."
Notwithstanding which, at the last moment, Gabriel hung awkwardly and heavily around the carriage in which the invalid was seated.
"I'd foller arter ye, Mr. Hamlin, in a buggy," he interpolated, in gentle deprecation of his unwieldy and difficult bulk, "but I'm sorter kept yer with my wife—who is powerful weak along of a pore small baby—about so long—the same not bein' a fammerly man yourself, you don't kinder get the hang of. I thought it might please ye to know that I got bail yesterday for thet Mr. Perkins—ez didn't kill that thar Ramirez—the same havin' killed hisself—ez waz fetched out on the trial, which I reckon ye didn't get to hear. I admire to see ye lookin' so well, Mr. Hamlin, and I'm glad Olly's goin' with ye. I reckon Grace would hev gone too, but she's sorter skary about strangers, hevin' bin engaged these seving years to a young man by the name o' Poinsett ez waz one o' my counsel, and hevin' lately had a row with the same—one o' them lovers' fights—which bein' a young man yourself, ye kin kindly allow for."
"Drive on!" imprecated Mr. Hamlin furiously to the driver; "what are you waiting for?" and with the whirling wheels Gabriel dropped off apologetically in a cloud of dust, and Mr. Hamlin sack back exhaustedly on the cushions.
Notwithstanding, as he increased his distance from One Horse Gulch, his spirits seemed to rise, and by the time they had reached San Antonio he had recovered his old audacity and dash of manner, and raised the highest hopes in the breast of everybody but—his doctor. Yet that gentleman, after a careful examination of his patient one night, said privately to Pete, "I think this exaltation will last about three days longer. I am going to San Francisco. At the end of that time I shall return—unless you telegraph to me before that." He parted gaily from his patient, and seriously from everybody else. Before he left he sought out Padre Felipe. "I have a patient here, in a critical condition," said the doctor; "the hotel is no place for him. Is there any family here—any house that will receive him under your advice for a week? At the end of that time he will be better, or beyondourministration. He is not a Protestant—he is nothing. You have had experience with the heathen, Father Felipe."
Father Felipe looked at Dr. Duchesne. The doctor's well-earned professional fame had penetrated even San Antonio; the doctor's insight and intelligence were visible in his manner, and touched the Jesuit instantly. "It is a strange case, my son; a sad case," he said, thoughtfully. "I will see."
He did. The next day, under the direction of Father Felipe, Mr. Hamlin was removed to the Rancho of the Blessed Fisherman, and notwithstanding the fact that its hostess was absent, was fairly installed as its guest. When Mrs. Sepulvida returned from her visit to San Francisco, she was at first astonished, then excited, and then, I fear, gratified.
For she at once recognised in this guest of Father Felipe the mysterious stranger whom she had, some weeks ago, detected on the plains of the Blessed Trinity. And Jack,despite his illness, was still handsome, and had, moreover, the melancholy graces of invalidism, which go far with an habitually ailing sex. And so she coddled Mr. Hamlin, and gave him her sacred hammock by day over the porch, and her best bedroom at night. And then, at the close of a pleasant day, she said, archly—
"I think I have seen you before, Mr. Hamlin—at the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity. You remember—the house of Donna Dolores?"
Mr. Hamlin was too observant of the sex to be impertinently mindful of another woman than his interlocutor, and assented with easy indifference.
Donna Maria (now thoroughly convinced that Mr. Hamlin's attentions on that eventful occasion were intended for herself, and even delightfully suspicious of some pre-arranged plan in his present situation): "Poor Donna Dolores! You know we have lost her for ever."
Mr. Hamlin asked, "When?"
"That dreadful earthquake on the 8th."
Mr. Hamlin, reflecting that the appearance of Grace Conroy was on the 10th, assented again abstractly.
"Ah, yes! so sad! And yet, perhaps, for the best. You know the poor girl had a hopeless passion for her legal adviser—the famous Arthur Poinsett! Ah! you did not? Well, perhaps it was only merciful that she died before she knew how insincere that man's attentions were. You are a believer in special Providences, Mr. Hamlin?"
Mr. Hamlin (doubtfully): "You mean a run of luck?"
Donna Maria (rapidly, ignoring Mr. Hamlin's illustration): "Well, perhapsIhave reason to say so. Poor Donna Dolores was my friend. Yet, would you believe there were people—you know how ridiculous is the gossipof a town like this—there are people who believed that he was paying attention to ME!"
Mrs. Sepulvida hung her head archly. There was a long pause. Then Mr. Hamlin called faintly—
"Pete!"
"Yes, Mars Jack."
"Ain't it time to take that medicine?"
When Dr. Duchesne returned he ignored all this little byplay, and even the anxious inquiries of Olly, and said to Mr. Hamlin—
"Have you any objection to my sending for Dr. Mackintosh—a devilish clever fellow?"
And Mr. Hamlin had none. And so, after a private telegram, Dr. Mackintosh arrived, and for three or four hours the two doctors talked in an apparently unintelligible language, chiefly about a person whom Mr. Hamlin was satisfied did not exist. And when Dr. Mackintosh left, Dr. Duchesne, after a very earnest conversation with him on their way to the stage office, drew a chair beside Mr. Hamlin's bed.
"Jack!"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you got everything fixed—all right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Jack!"
"Yes, sir."
"You've made Pete very happy this morning."
Jack looked up at Dr. Duchesne's critical face, and the doctor went on gravely—
"Confessing religion to him—saying you believed as he did!"
A faint laugh glimmered in the dark hollows of Jack's eyes.
"The old man," he said, explanatory, "has been preachin'mighty heavy at me ever since t'other doctor came, and I reckoned it might please him to allow that everything he said was so. You see the old man's bin right soft on me, and between us, doctor, I ain't much to give him in exchange. It's no square game!"
"Then you believe you're going to die?" said the doctor, gravely.
"I reckon."
"And you have no directions to give me?"
"There's a black hound at Sacramento—Jim Briggs, who borrowed and never gave back my silver-mounted Derringers, that I reckoned to give to you! Tell him he'd better give them up or I'll"——
"Jack," interrupted Dr. Duchesne, with infinite gentleness, laying his hand on the invalid's arm, "you must not think of me."
Jack pressed his friend's hand.
"There's my diamond pin up the spout at Wingdam, and the money gone to Lawyer Maxwell to pay witnesses for that old fool Gabriel. And then when Gabriel and me was escaping I happened to strike the very man, Perkins, who was Gabriel's principal witness, and he was dead broke, and I had to give him my solitaire ring to help him get away and be on hand for Gabriel. And Olly's got my gold specimen to be made into a mug for that cub of that old she tiger—Gabriel's woman—that Madame Devarges. And my watch—whohasgot my watch?" said Mr. Hamlin, reflectively.
"Never mind those things, Jack. Have you any word to send—to—anybody?"
"No."
There was a long pause. In the stillness the ticking of a clock on the mantel became audible. Then there was a laugh in the ante-room, where a professional brother ofJack's had been waiting, slightly under the influence of grief and liquor.
"Scotty ought to know better than to kick up a row in a decent woman's house," whispered Jack, faintly. "Tell him to dry up, or I'll"——
But his voice was failing him, and the sentence remained incomplete.
"Doc——" (after a long effort).
"Jack."
"Don't—let—on—to Pete—I fooled—him."
"No, Jack."
They were both still for several minutes. And then Dr. Duchesne softly released his hand and laid that of his patient, white and thin, upon the coverlid before him. Then he rose gently and opened the door of the ante-room. Two or three eager faces confronted him. "Pete," he said, gravely, "I want Pete—no one else."
The old negro entered with a trembling step. And then catching sight of the white face on the pillow, he uttered one cry—a cry replete with all the hysterical pathos of his race, and ran and dropped on his knees beside—it! And then the black and the white face were near together, and both were wet with tears.
Dr. Duchesne stepped forward and would have laid his hand gently upon the old servant's shoulder. But he stopped, for suddenly both of the black hands were lifted wildly in the air, and the black face with rapt eyeballs turned toward the ceiling, as if they had caught sight of the steadfast blue beyond. Perhaps they had.
"O de Lord God! whose prechiss blood washes de brack sheep and de white sheep all de one colour! O de Lamb ob God! Sabe, sabe dis por', dis por' boy. O Lord God, for MY sake. O de Lord God, dow knowst fo' twenty years Pete, ole Pete, has walked in dy ways—hasfound de Lord and Him crucified!—and has been dy servant. O de Lord God—O de bressed Lord, ef it's all de same to you, let all dat go fo' nowt. Let ole Pete go! and send down dy mercy and forgiveness fo'him!"
There was little difficulty in establishing the validity of Grace Conroy's claim to the Conroy grant under the bequest of Dr. Devarges. Her identity was confirmed by Mr. Dumphy—none the less readily that it relieved him of a distressing doubt about the late Mrs. Dumphy, and did not affect his claim to the mineral discovery which he had purchased from Gabriel and his wife. It was true that since the dropping of the lead the mine had been virtually abandoned, and was comparatively of little market value. But Mr. Dumphy still clung to the hope that the missing lead would be discovered.
He was right. It was some weeks after the death of Mr. Hamlin that Gabriel and Olly stood again beneath the dismantled roof-tree and bare walls of his old cabin on Conroy Hill. But the visit this time was not one of confidential disclosure nor lonely contemplation, but with a practical view of determining whether this first home of the brother and sister could be repaired and made habitable, for Gabriel had steadily refused the solicitations of Grace that he should occupy his more recent mansion. Mrs. Conroy and infant were at the hotel.
"Thar, Olly," said Gabriel, "I reckon that a cartload o' boards and a few days' work with willin' hands, will put that thar shanty back ag'in ez it used to be when you and me waz childun."
"Yes," said Olly, abstractedly.
"We've had good times yer, Olly, you and me!"
"Yes," said Olly, with eyes still afar.
Gabriel looked down—a great way—on his sister, and then suddenly took her hand and sat down upon the doorstep, drawing her between his knees after the old fashion.
"Ye ain't hearkenin' to me, Olly dear!"
Whereat Miss Olympia instantly and illogically burst into tears, and threw her small arms about Gabriel's huge bulk. She had been capricious and fretful since Mr. Hamlin's death, and it may be that she embraced the dead man again in her brother's arms. Hut her outward expression was, "Gracey! I was thinking o' poor Gracey, Gabe!"
"Then," said Gabriel, with intense archness and cunning, "you was thinkin' o' present kempany, for ef I ain't blind, that's them coming up the hill."
There were two figures slowly coming up the hill outlined against the rosy sunset. A man and woman—Arthur Poinsett and Grace Conroy. Olly lifted her head and rose to her feet. They approached nearer. No one spoke. The next instant—impulsively I admit, inconsistently I protest—the sisters were in each other's arms. The two men looked at each other, awkward, reticent, superior.
Then the women having made quick work of it, the two men were treated to an equally illogical, inconsistent embrace. When Grace at last, crying and laughing, released Gabriel's neck from her sweet arms, Mr. Poinsett assumed the masculine attitude of pure reason.
"Now that you have found your sister, permit me to introduce you to my wife," he said to Gabriel, taking Grace's hand in his own.
Whereat Olly flew into Poinsett's arms, and gave him a fraternal and conciliatory kiss. Tableau.
"You don't look like a bride," said the practical Olly toMrs. Poinsett, under her breath; "you ain't got no veil, no orange blossoms—and that black dress"——
"We've been married seven years, Olly," said the quick-eared and ready-witted Arthur.
And then these people began to chatter as if they had always been in the closest confidence and communion.
"You know," said Grace to her brother, "Arthur and I are going East, to the States, to-morrow, and really, Gabe, he says he will not leave here until you consent to take back your house—your wife's house, Gabe. You know WE" (there was a tremendous significance in this newly-found personal plural), "WE have deeded it all to you."
"I hev a dooty to per-form to Gracey," said Gabriel Conroy, with astute deliberation, looking at Mr. Poinsett, "a dooty to thet gal, thet must be done afore any transfer of this yer proputty is made. I hev to make restitution of certain papers ez hez fallen casooally into my hands. This yer paper," he added, drawing a soiled yellow envelope from his pocket, "kem to me a week ago, the same hevin' lied in the Express Office sens the trial. It belongs to Gracey, I reckon, and I hands it to her."
Grace tore open the envelope, glanced at its contents hurriedly, uttered a slight cry of astonishment, blushed, and put the paper into her pocket.
"This yer paper," continued Gabriel, gravely, drawing another from his blouse, "was found by me in the Empire Tunnel the night I was runnin' from the lynchers. It likewise b'longs to Gracey—and the world gin'rally. It's the record of Dr. Devarges' fust discovery of the silver lead on this yer hill, and," continued Gabriel, with infinite gravity, "wipes out, so to speak, this yer mineral right o' me and Mr. Dumphy and the stockholders gin'rally."
It was Mr. Poinsett's turn to take the paper from Gabriel's hands. He examined it attentively by the fadinglight. "That is so," he said, earnestly; "it is quite legal and valid."
"And thar ez one paper more," continued Gabriel, this time putting his hand in his bosom and drawing out a buckskin purse, from which he extracted a many-folded paper. "It's the grant that Dr. Devarges gave Gracey, thet thet pore Mexican Ramirez ez—maybe ye may remember—waz killed, handed to my wife, and July, my wife"—said Gabriel, with a prodigious blush—"hez been sorter keepin'IN TRUSTfor Gracey!"
He gave the paper to Arthur, who received it, but still retained a warm grasp of Gabriel's massive hand.
"And now," added Gabriel, "et's gettin' late, and I reckon et's about the square thing ef we'd ad-journ this yer meeting to the hotel, and ez you're goin' away, maybe ye'd make a partin' visit with yer wife, forgettin' and forgivin' like, to Mrs. Conroy and the baby—a pore little thing—that ye wouldn't believe it, Mr. Poinsett, looks like me!"
But Olly and Grace had drawn aside, and were in the midst of an animated conversation. And Grace was saying—
"So I took the stone from the fire, just as I take this" (she picked up a fragment of the crumbling chimney before her); "it looked black and burnt just like this; and I rubbed it hard on the blanket so, and it shone, just like silver, and Dr. Devarges said"——
"We are going, Grace," interrupted her husband, "we are going to see Gabriel's wife." Grace hesitated a moment, but as her husband took her arm he slightly pressed it with a certain matrimonial caution, whereupon with a quick impulsive gesture, Grace held out her hand to Olly, and the three gaily followed the bowed figure of Gabriel, as he strode through the darkening woods.
I regret that no detailed account of the reconciliatory visit to Mrs. Conroy has been handed down, and I only gather a hint of it from after comments of the actors themselves. When the last words of parting had been said, and Grace and Arthur had taken their seats in the Wingdam coach, Gabriel bent over his wife's bedside,—