Mrs. Wheaton had approached the group, and Charlie turned to her.
"It is not as a poor man that I claim your daughter for my bride; see, I am rich—worth a hundred thousand this moment," he drew a package of papers from his pocket; "and I have the ambition and the power to amass a fortune, and place your daughter where she will never miss the comforts and luxuries of her childhood's home."
He stepped over to where Mr. Wheaton stood listening in incredulous silence to what the young man said.
"And may I ask from where this fabulous wealth springs so suddenly?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"I own to having tried my luck, against the strict advice and wish of my employers, in mining speculations. The venture has proved successful. I say nothing in extenuationof the fault—if fault I have committed—save that I wanted to offer to Lola a home which should not be too great a contrast to her father's house. Old Bingham—"
"Old Bingham," interrupted Mr. Wheaton, purple in the face; "and the name of the mine?"
"The Golden Lamp," answered Charlie, proudly, holding up for Mr. Wheaton's inspection the papers he had drawn from his pocket.
"Lola!" shouted Mr. Wheaton in his shrillest tones, seizing the girl by the arm and dragging her away from Charlie's side, as if the young man had been afflicted with a sudden leprosy, "come to me, my child. He's a beggar, I tell you—a beggar and worse; for all his friends will turn from him for his indiscretion. The whole thing is a gull; there isn't gold enough in the mine to show the color. Here's the paper. Where did you have your eyes this morning?"
Charlie stood like one paralyzed; his fingers clutched tighter the roll of papers in his hand, and he gazed with a strange, bewildered stare into Lola's eyes, as though trying hard to understand what the dreadful things he heard meant. Lola seemed to comprehend quicker, and the look she bent on Charlie was full of tender pity, as she watched the lines that black, hopeless despair was writing on his face. Mrs. Wheaton had snatched the paper from her husband's hand and was reading:
"The chosen few who thought that for once they could fleece the golden lamb driven quietly into a little corner for their own benefit, have come out leaving their own wool behind. We are speaking of the Golden Lamb Mine, which was to have been paraded in the market about the first of January, to lead astray with its deceptive glitter all who were foolish enough to believe without seeing. The few shares that had already been disposed of 'to strictly confidentialfriends,' by the shrewd managers of the concern, have gone down from five hundred dollars to five dollars, at which figure they went begging late in the afternoon yesterday, no one having confidence in a swindle so promptly and completely exposed."
"Lola," it was Charles's voice, but so changed and broken that Mrs. Wheaton dropped the paper to look into his face.
Lola sprang to his side, and he groped for her hand as though its slender strength could uphold the man who but an hour before looked able to move mountains from their place. Blindness seemed to have fallen on his eyes, for he repeated the call when the girl stood close beside him.
"My darling," she murmured, seizing the hand that was still seeking hers, and, heedless of her mother's presence or her father's wild gestures, she pressed the icy fingers to her lips, breathing broken words of love and comfort into Charlie's ear.
"Lola!" the name again rang through the room; it was her mother's cry, and the sharp terror in it struck like a knife to the girl's heart, "your father—quick! Would you kill him? Do you not see—he is dying! Oh, my child, my child, cast off everything, but do not load your soul with his death! God help me to guide you." There was something in the woman's eye that spoke of more than alarm at the symptoms of an approaching attack, such as she had always feared for the father of her children.
She had never loved this man with the absorbing passion of which her heart was capable; but as she knelt by his side, giving him every aid in her power in a frenzied, hurried manner, so different from her usual placid ways, her wide-opened eyes seemed to look back through the shadows and mists of long, dreary years, and she spoke wildly and rapidly to her child.
"Oh, Lola! don't blacken your soul with this crime—I too loaded the curse on me; I have borne it for years—andall the useless remorse, the vain, bitter regrets. Give up all you hold dear in life, but do not, do not try to find your way to happiness over the stricken form of your father!"
Lola shook like a reed in the storm, and breaking away from Charlie she knelt by her mother's side.
"Father!" she pleaded, "father, speak to me—call me your pet again—your dearest child; see me—I will never, never leave you, father, only speak to me once again."
No one heeded Charlie, and he staggered from the house, muttering between his clinched teeth:
"So they will all turn from me—and she was the first."
Hours passed ere the old man found speech and consciousness again; and the physician who had been summoned shook his head warningly. "It was a narrow escape," he said; "careful, old man, careful. What is it the Bible, or some other good book says—'let not your angry passions rise?' Who's been vexing you?"
Lola, his special favorite, whose eyes he had seen opening on the light of this world, was not present, or her ghastly face might have prevented him from asking the question.
Mrs. Wheaton was again the quiet, sad-faced woman, solicitous only for the comfort and well-doing of the man who had been to her the most indulgent of husbands. It was hard to say what was passing in her heart; perhaps the crater had long since burned out, and the silver threads running through her raven hair was the snow that had gathered on the cold ashes. For Lola there was neither rest nor sleep, and she insisted on watching through the night by her father's bedside, though assured that there was no necessity for keeping watch.
Early the next morning she went out, not clandestinely, but with a determined step and an expression in her eye than which nothing could be more sad and hopeless. She returned after many hours, and though her eyes had lost none of theirdreary expression, there seemed to be some purpose written in them that could also be traced in the lines drawn since yesterday about the firmly closed mouth. Her mother, concealed by the heavy curtains drawn back from the window, watched her gloomily as she passed through the room gathering up some music that lay scattered on the piano, as though she meant never to touch its ivory keys again.
"Ah, me!" she sighed, "she is young to learn the bitter lesson: that those who have a heart must crush out its love before they can go through life in peace! Dolores—it seemed like an atonement to call her so; but would I had not given her the fatal name. God will help her to forget—as He has given me peace."
The darkening eyes, straying far out over the waters, seemed for a moment ready to belie the boast of her lips, so restless and uneasy was their light; but the discipline of half a lifetime asserted its power, and she went from the room, calm and self-possessed as ever.
Little did she dream of the cause of what she deemed Lola's uncomplaining resignation. The girl had seen her lover, and, unspeakably wretched as he was, she could say no word to comfort him, but held his hand in hers, with all the love her heart contained beaming from her glorious eyes. Only once did he clasp her to his heart in a passionate embrace: she had sealed the promise to be his, with a kiss. They would enter on their new life together at the beginning of the year. They would be wedded to each other on New-Year day—but the priest who received their vows should be Death, and their marriage-bed the bottom of the bay.
Charlie's name was never mentioned in the Wheaton mansion; the events of Christmas morning seemed banished from the memory of the three people who had participated in them. There was nothing to indicate that a change of any kind had taken place or was likely to take place. Once only in thecourse of the week Miss Fanny remarked laughingly, that she thought Lola was preparing to elope, because all her books, dresses, and trinkets were so neatly packed together. But as no one seemed to join in Miss Fanny's pleasantry, the young lady betook herself to her usual pastime—the novel and the lounge.
During the week the weather changed, and heavy storms swept over land and sea, stirring to the depths the waters on which Lola gazed for many a half hour with a kind of stony satisfaction. She had not seen Charlie since the first day of the week, and she often muttered to herself, "Far better death than a life without my love."
At last New-Year's morning dawned clear and bright, like a morning in early spring. At an early hour the Wheaton mansion became the scene of great rejoicing. There was a vigorous pull at the bell, and when the door was opened a robust young fellow made his way very unceremoniously into the breakfast-room, and a fresh Irish voice with its rich brogue burst out:
"Plaize, mam, and it's a splendid b'y; and nurse says I'm not to stay a minit, but you're to come right aff."
Mr. Wheaton threatened to go off with joy this time, his face turned so red.
"A boy, mother—think of that!" he shouted, forgetting for once in his life what he deemed his dignity, and for the first time calling his wife anything but Mrs. Wheaton in the presence of strangers or servants. "Pat, my boy, here's something to drink his health [Thank'ee, sur;—and it's a half aigle, shure], but not now; mind you, go right back and stay there till I come, or I'll skin you alive."
After this unprecedentedly familiar and jocular speech, he turned Pat out of doors, kissed his wife frantically and rushed up-stairs to dress, as though the boy's life and safety depended on his taking immediate charge of him. In the meantimethe door-bell had been rung again, and Mr. Wheaton stopped when halfway up the stairs, there was something so frightened and excited in the manner of the lady who entered the hall-door.
"Miss Lola is at home, I think," said the servant in answer to her question; and Mrs. Wheaton, crossing the hall at this moment, turned to look at the strange woman.
A little scream, and Miss Myrick—for it was she—asked of Lola, who stood white and ghostly in the doorway, "Is that your mother, Lola? Oh, then I understand it all. Poor Charlie? The woman who could—"
Mrs. Wheaton stepped quickly forward. "Stop, Augusta Myrick; not one word more before my child."
Mr. Wheaton had descended the stairs, and sprung to his wife, who seemed ready to sink, but Lola, unheeding both, clutched Miss Myrick's arm.
"Charlie?" she gasped.
"Oh, Lola! he's gone; his room is empty and all his papers have been stolen or destroyed. My poor, poor boy."
"Gone—to his death without me! How cruel—but I am coming, Charlie; I will follow you."
Her eyes were wandering, and she broke from Miss Myrick's grasp.
"Hold her," cried Miss Myrick, "hold her. Charlie is dead and she is crazed. Help!"
Mr. Wheaton was beside himself, and Mrs. Wheaton flung her arms about Lola, who was struggling to free herself. At last her father's strong hands bore her to a sofa in the nearest room, and as he laid her down the weary eyes closed and the fainting head drooped back.
"Not dead," he groaned. "Oh, God, not dead!" and as the mother and the strange woman bent low over the prostrate girl, a tall, manly form broke into the room, as though led there by an unerring instinct.
"Oh, my darling," and he knelt beside the sofa, chafing her hands and kissing her cold brow; "wake up; you are mine, and we will not die, but live together. Open your eyes, darling; nothing more will part us now. See, I am rich once more, and no one shall come between us. Look up, darling. Come back to me."
Slowly his kisses brought a faint color to her brow and cheek; and when she opened her eyes and he pressed warm kisses on her lips, there was none to say him nay. Papa Wheaton was occupied with his handkerchief—he seemed suffering from a fresh-caught cold, and Mrs. Wheaton stood with clasped hands watching her daughter's motionless form.
Miss Myrick alone had noticed the graybearded, sun-burned man who had come into the house with Charlie. The stranger had gazed silently on Mrs. Wheaton till a mist gathered in his eyes, and he said softly to himself, "Dolorosa!" Then the name has been a prophecy, and my poor Annie went through life—Dolores.
Lola moved at last, and as Charlie lifted her tenderly in his arms, no one stepped forward to separate them.
"She is mine now!" he cried exultingly, and he held up to Mr. Wheaton's view a morning paper. "It was false about the Golden Lamb, and I am worth a hundred thousand to-day."
"And besides," the stranger introduced himself with a courteous bow to Mr. Wheaton, "Charles Somervale is my nephew and will be my heir. I am a total stranger to you, so I beg to refer you to the house of Daniel Meyer & Co."
At the sound of the voice Mrs. Wheaton had hastily scanned his features; then she staggered against the wall with a look on her face that spoke so plainly of a life-long sorrow, of a pain for which there is no remedy on earth, that Miss Myrick, forgetting all the hard feelings she had shown at first, sprang forward and passed her arm around the falling woman.
"The excitement has been too much for her," she said; "leave the room, all of you, and I will bring her to herself."
But Mrs. Wheaton's was a strong nature.
"It is nothing," she said, and she turned slowly to the stranger. "Let your coming to this house on a New-Year's morning—though you knew not who its inmates were—be an earnest of your kind feeling for them, and let us be united in the wish for the happiness of my child and the child of your dead sister."
The stranger had advanced and raised Mrs. Wheaton's hand for a moment to his lips.
"To-morrow I take ship to return to the far Indies; but my wishes and prayers shall always be for the happiness of these children, and—the peace of mind of Annie—my Dolores loved and lost."
The last words were spoken in a husky whisper, and none saw the tear that fell on Mrs. Wheaton's ice-cold hand. Her own eyes were dry; and though she had not lowered them, shefeltthe tear burning its way into her very soul.
Mr. Wheaton's cheery voice roused her.
"The boy, children—have you all forgotten about the boy? Matilda's son, sir," shaking Charlie by the hand, "a fine, healthy boy. One of the family now, Charlie—come and see."
But who can blame Charlie for declining to go? His uncle had left the house, and Aunt Myrick had gone with Mrs. Wheaton up-stairs, there to renew the friendship broken off years ago, because of the lonely man who was standing at this moment, gazing far out on the restless, ever-changing sea.
We could not be indiscreet enough to play eavesdropper after everybody but Lola and Charlie had left the parlor, but we have it on good authority that Uncle Barton is to be present at the wedding ceremony before taking ship again for the far Indies.
Well, perhaps it isn't much of a place, after you get there, though harder to describe than many a town of fifty times its size and importance. But it is the capital of Arizona, and a fair representation of the whole Territory. Could you be lifted from the midst of civilization, and "let down" in Tucson over night, you would know at once what the rest of Arizona is.
How like afata morganait looks when you first see it in this enchanted atmosphere: the intensely blue sky overhead, the plain about it covered with sparse grass and fantastic cactus, that hide the sand and make the earth look verdant; the low, white dome and the picturesque buildings clustering about it; theadobegarden-walls, with arched gateways, sometimes whitened, sometimes left in their native mud color, toned down by age and the glare of the sun; a tall mesquite-tree or a group of cotton-woods striving heavenward from among theadobehouses; Saddle Mountain, with its ever-changing tints and its strong lights and shades in the far distance, and Sugar-loaf or Sentinel Hill to the immediate left. On the plain between town and the Sugar-loaf, the ruins of what, in any other country, I should pronounce to have been a monastery, lift themselves from the fresh, dewy green—venerable, gray, and stately—some wild vine creeping stealthily in at the frameless window, and out again at the roofless top.
Having purposely avoided a close inspection of this spot, for fear of being compelled to see that the ruins were only coarse mud-walls, standing in a wilderness of hideous sandand clay, flecked with stiff bunch-grass, the contemplation of it, with my mind's eye, is one of the pleasures of memory to me, even at this day. Could I have avoided passing through the streets of Tucson, perhaps I could think of it, too, as a charming and delightful place. There are gardens down on our left, as we come in from this side, that "blossom as the rose," and are overshadowed by just such beautiful, waving trees as we see in among the houses yonder; and, from these "indications," we are justified in supposing that we will findparterresof flowers in the gardens surrounded by those high walls. But we have forgotten to take into account that a stream of water flows along those fields; that gardens don't flourish here without water, and that water in the town can only be had by digging deep down into the hard ground.
Theéliteof the Spanish population pride themselves on their gardens—flower-beds in the inclosed court-yards; flower-beds raised some three or four feet from the ground and walled around with stones—but if the flowers that grow on these elevations are "few and far between," they make up in color and fragrance what they lack in numbers. The court-yard is usually flagged, like the best room in the house, and the whole is kept cool and fresh by continual sprinkling and irrigating. This, however, is correct only of a very few houses; the average Mexican, even though his family consist of twenty head, lives in a single darkadoberoom, without window or fireplace—the hard, dry, yellow clay within a continuation of the hard, dry, yellow clay without—not divided even by a jealous door. In summer, the family live inside the house, rolling around on the bare floor, or the straw matting spread in one corner—careful not to venture into the sun that bakes the barren ground by theircasaharder and harder every day. In winter, the day is passed on the outside, the different members of the family shifting theirposition with the sun—huddling together, flat on the ground, with their backs against the wall that is warmest from its rays. What they do for a living, I don't know: could they harvest nectar and ambrosia, instead of wine and bread, from the land surrounding their miserable houses, they could not be induced to till it; and, as for trade or handicraft, they have never flourished in Tucson. The only thing that swarthy, black-eyed lad there will ever learn, is to lasso his starvedbronco, or shoulder his lockless gun, and start out with the pack-train, just loading for Sonora, in front of the largest store in town. If he returns from there without losing his scalp, he will never rest till the lastpasohas been spent with hiscompadres, at thebaila, or the new American bar and billiard saloon at the corner. Nor will he begrudge his sister, or any other lass to whom he is attached, the many-colored shawl in the show-window of the American dry-goods store at the other corner; and, should anything be left then, he will conscientiously devote it toward promoting the bull-fight that is to come off next Sunday.
"Miserable people, a miserable place, and a miserable life!" came from between the set, white teeth of a little personage at the window of a house lying on something of an eminence, in the "fashionable" quarter of the town, as she absently gazed on the fields, bright and alive with the stir and the sun of this pleasant July afternoon.
The fact of the house having windows, and the windows being set with glass, marks it as one of the "aristocratic" houses, though the man who built it, only two years ago, had come empty-handed and broken in heart and spirit from scenes of desolation and wretchedness in the Southern States. If ever a man buried hope, ambition, and life-energy with the Lost Cause, that man was Oray Granville. Even before the rebellion broke out, he had lost his all through the North (as he reasoned); for all that life seemed worth living for, wasthe woman he had loved. A wealthy Northern man had led to the altar the queenly form which to him had been an embodiment of all that is graceful and divine. The form, life, and soul seemed to have fled from the eyes into which he had gazed just once after the binding words had been spoken.
When the war broke out, he was among the first in the field; and, though fighting for what he deemed his rights, he asked, at the end of each bloody affray—as did St. Arnaud at the Crimea—"And is there no bullet for me?" And after each such day did the look he had caught from those sad, black orbs settle down deeper into the shadows of his own gray eyes. Returning to the home of his youth once more, before starting out on his dangerous journey over the plains to Arizona—where he was to join an older brother—he found domiciled at his father's house his cousin, a young girl of eighteen.
In Miss Jenny's eyes, the vague rumor that Cousin Ray had been "crossed in love" lent an additional charm to his handsome presence, and the melancholy, half-reserved air that made him almost unapproachable. Though there was apparently little in common between the world-weary, disappointed man and the little elfish creature that looked so joyfully out upon the world with her light-blue eyes, he unconsciously fell under the influence of her restless, but most cheerful spirit. Not that her temper was always sunny and even—far from it: but too often her eyes would flash fire, and the quivering flanks of the fine-chiselled nose distend and almost flatten in the hot, flushed face. Just so her Cousin Ray's nostrils were wont to spread when angered or excited—only that his face would grow white and more marble-like than usual.
On what ground these two spirits met, I cannot say; but when Oray Granville finally left his southern home, it was in company with his wife, Mrs. Jenny. Nor can I recount, atlength, how love worked wonders, and the petted, white-fingered little lady learned to take thought for the morrow and the comfort of her lord and master; and though often flying into one of her sudden fits of passion, when a batch of "sad" bread was the reward for all her pains and patience, or a burn on her wrist or fingers, she never once breathed a word of regret at having come with her husband. Her husband never attempted to subdue her temper or soothe her ruffled feelings; but if, when worn out with the day's toil (of which he bore his honest share), she crept up beside him, he had most always a kind word for her; or, if more chary of words than usual, a soft pressure of the little hand that had stolen into his, told her that her affection was felt and appreciated.
Shortly after their arrival in Tucson, he was prostrated by the horrible fever which this place has in store for most strangers. Thepetiteframe of the wife resisted the enemy to whom the stalwart man was forced to yield; and with untiring devotion she watched by him through the long days and the lonely nights. He needed sleep, the doctor said; and she crept about like a little mouse. But, hanging over him, and listening to his low, irregular breathing, such a terror would seize her that, bending close to his ear, she would plead, "Ray—Cousin Ray—are you alive? Speak to me, please." Then the heavy eyes would open for a moment, and she remain quiet, till her fears got the better of her judgment again. But never a look of reproach came into the weary eyes, and never a word from the white lips, though his life had nearly been a forfeit to her loving, but impatient spirit.
Nor did she once fly into a passion during the long days of his convalescence; but when he had quite recovered, she proved that she had not left her temper behind her in the South, where he, according to her accusation, had left his tongue. There were days in which he seemed to live only ina dream, so silent were his lips; but the office which had been bestowed upon him, almost against his will, was ably and faithfully filled—though a bend of the head or a single terse sentence was given, where other men would have deemed volumes of speech necessary. It was no wonder that his wife flew into a rage, when, as sometimes happened, she had recounted to him the troubles and trials of the day—which were not few—and found, at the end of an hour's harangue, that he had neither heard nor understood a word of what she had said, but seemed to waken from a trance at the little pettish shake she gave his arm. Then she would accuse him of not loving her, bewail her sad lot, and vow to grow silent and unloving like himself. After a season of storming on her part, and utter silence on his, she would creep back to her old place beside him, to find her kiss returned, and any cunningly devised question, calculated and shaped toward reconciliation, answered by him, kindly and calmly as ever.
One afternoon, while Cousin Ray sat in his office—silent, preoccupied, and moody as usual—the din and confusion of an extensive dog-fight disturbed his reveries. A cloud of dust and dogs rolled up to the office-door, and the next moment the attorney of the Territory stood in the street, a club in one hand and a "rock" in the other. A few well-aimed blows soon freed "the under-dog in the fight" from his half-dozen assailants; and with a half-sneaking, half-confident air, the little ugly thing—part cur, partcoyote, with a slight tinge of sheep-dog—followed his deliverer to the office. When evening came, the dog shyly, but persistently, followed his newly-elected master home; and Mrs. Jenny, after first bitterly railing both at her husband and the dog, proceeded to set supper before them with equal care and conscientiousness. Next morning she found occasion to anathematize Arizona in general and Tucson in particular; and, her eye falling on the new acquisition, she instantly attacked him.
"Get away with you! Of all things in creation you're the ugliest, andyourname should be Tucson, too."
And Tucson it was, from that day out. The dog soon learned to understand Mrs. Jenny as his master did, only he could not be brought to endure her bursts of temper with the same gentlemanly calmness. His meals were as well and regularly provided as though he had a well-founded claim to the best of treatment; and of an evening, when Cousin Ray was absent, he was left at home, and admitted to the sitting-room, where a small piece of Mrs. Jenny's dress-skirt was tacitly admitted to be his privilege during his master's absence. But only during his absence: as soon as his footstep was heard approaching from the street, Mrs. Jenny seemed suddenly to discover the dog's proximity, and with a threatening "You get out!" the dress-skirt was quickly withdrawn, while Tucson, made wise by experience, would spring to a safe distance, and there flash defiance at her, with his white teeth and his glittering black eyes.
Last night, however, the edge of the dress-skirt had been carefully gathered up from the floor, and Tucson, on growling his dissatisfaction, had been turned into the cold, open hall, where he met his master with a little whine when he came home, late, and more moody and buried in thought than ever. Nevertheless, he stooped to pat the dog's shaggy head, before entering the room, with a half-drawn sigh. Mrs. Jenny had well merited the reproach she always flung at her husband, this night, so silently and noiselessly she moved around the room. Cousin Ray cast on her just one look—that said more than all the words she had spoken for years; but she did not heed it, and, with another sigh, at the remembrance of the letter signed "Margaret," which she had found in his pocket that morning, he sought the couch where neither sleep nor peace came to the two. Early the next morning he had gone to the office, but returned before noon, and mountedhis stoutbronco, being accompanied by a small number of Americans and an old Mexican guide.
It was not the first time Mrs. Jenny had helped equip and furnish a cavalcade of this kind, for a prospecting or mining expedition; and, unbidden, she brought out her husband's warmest wraps and her best stores from the larder. For a moment her cheeks blanched, as, from a few chance words she caught, she was led to believe that the object of the journey was the finding of the firmly-believed-in Jesuit, or Hidden Silver-mine. But her husband volunteered no explanation; and she would show him, for once, that she could refrain from asking questions. As he approached and bent over her to bid her good-by, the fatal white envelope that had so angered her yesterday, again gleamed from an inside pocket; and, hastily drawing back, she spoke sharply in answer to his cordial words:
"You neednevercome back to me with that letter in your pocket. Never—never!"
And, passing in through the hall-door, she saw Tucson quenching his thirst eagerly, as preparing for a long run, at his basin on the floor. Quick as thought she had caught him up in her arms, and, carrying him to the door, she flung him with all her force against Cortez, who was just moving off, with his master on his back.
"Go along with your master, you ugly brute.Inever want to see you again—never, never!" and the heavy door closed with a loud bang.
Then she went back to her household duties, never heeding that the sun had reached the meridian, and never pausing till material and strength together were thoroughly exhausted. At last, after obstinately brushing down the curls that would as obstinately spring up again, she drew near to the window. She never knew how long she stood there; but when the women by theacequia, in the tree-bordered field, away downfrom the house, packed the linen they had made a pretence of washing all day, into their large, round baskets to carry home for the night, Mrs. Jenny—uttering her verdict on the people and the place—turned sharply on her heel, and opened the box containing her outdoor garments. Her hat was soon tied on, and a heavy shawl thrown over her arm, to guard against the cool of the night that might overtake her. Pleasantly returning the greeting that all who met her offered, she went unmolested on her way till she reached the last huts of the Papagoes—who burrow here, half underground, at a respectable distance from the better class of Mexicans. From the door of a strayadobe, that looked like an advance-post of rude civilization among these wicker-huts, a female voice, in the musical language that the roughest of these Mexicans use, called after her:
"Holy Virgin,señora, are you not afraid of the Apaches?"
But, like the youth who bore "the banner with the strange device," she passed on, heedless and silent, to all appearances, but saying, within her stubborn little heart, "Indians or no Indians,I'mgoing to Cousin Will's."
In less than an hour's time, the barking of dogs fell on her ear, and, though no trace of fence, orchard, or barn could be seen, she knew that in and beyond that grove of mesquite-trees lay Cousin Will's possessions—counted one of the finest farms in the Territory. Directly she turned from the road into an open space, where a low, solidadobehouse and two or three dilapidatedjacalesrepresented a comfortable farm-house and extensive out-buildings, to the right of which a large field of waving corn stretched downward to the river. Back of the house blossomed a little garden, the scarlet geranium covering almost the whole wall; from the garden the ground fell abruptly to the water, where a clump of willows and cotton-woods shaded a large cool spring. But the most surprising feature of this Arizona scene was a spring-house,which, though built ofadobe, looked just as natural, and held just as rich, sweet milk as any spring-house found in the Western States.
Mrs. Jenny, however, had no time to advance to this spot, even had such been her intention. The barking of the dogs had called a dozen or two of swarthy little Cupids from thejacalesand other resorts of thepeones, who, with a simultaneous shout, had rushed in a body to the house of the master, announcing the coming of the unexpected visitor. Cousin Will and his wife—one of those grand, black-eyed women, with the bearing of a princess, whom we find among the old Spanish families—met the sister-in-law long before she reached the house. Cousin Will's wife greeted her sister-in-law cordially as "Juana;" while Mrs. Jenny held to the more formal "Doña Inez," which she had never yet dropped—perhaps on account of a fancied likeness between her and Margaret, of whom she had secretly begged a most minute description from one of the younger brothers in her uncle's house, at home.
"Why did Brother Ray let you come out here alone?" asked the older brother, almost indignantly.
Doña Inez, who understood English, smiled a good-humored, but expressive smile; noticing which, Mrs. Jenny supplemented, without the least resentment: "And, besides, he wasn't at home to try. He started out this morning with Blake, and Goodwin, and old Pedrillo."
"To look for the Hidden Mine of the Padres? Oh, the foolish, foolish boy! Had I known how determined he was to go, I should not have left him last night. Will he never stop dreaming and chasing after shadows?"
Cousin Will was full twenty years his brother's senior; and it was, perhaps, the recollection of the almost fatherly love he had always shown for the younger brother that made Mrs. Jenny suddenly, when Doña Inez had left the room, fling herhat on the floor, herself on the lounge, and give way to the tears that had gathered in her heart all day. Cousin Will knew her too well to offer a single word of comfort or consolation; but when her convulsive sobs had ceased at last, he told her, in answer to her quick, impatient questions, all he knew of the letter, its contents and consequences.
In the old archives of Tucson, to which Ray, by virtue of his office, had access, he thought he had found sufficient proof of the existence of the old silver ledge, and sufficiently clear advices of its location, to warrant him in making a search for it. Fully aware of the many dangers to which any party he might organize for that purpose would be exposed, he had long hesitated—hesitated, too, partly on account of his wife's violent opposition, and partly because there were few, whom he would select, willing to go with him, where hundreds had already perished from the Indian's arrow and the want of food and water. Three days ago, the letter from Margaret had found its way to him. She was not long for this world, she said, and, poor and in distress—abandoned by her husband, who had been beggared by the war—she pleaded that Ray should care for the two children she must leave to the cold charity of strangers, if she died.
"What will you do about it?" his brother had asked. And then Ray had unfolded to him what the brother called one of his day-dreams. He would find the mine, load Jenny with the treasures its discovery would bring, and send her back to the States, to find Margaret, or the children (if she were dead), while he remained behind to develop and finally dispose of the mine, before joining his wife. He knew what Jenny had undergone in this country, for his sake; he knew how well she loved him, and he trusted that, with her noble instincts, she would aid him in carrying out his projects in regard to Margaret and her children—neither of whom he ever intended to see.
Since she had once given way to softer feelings, Jenny's better self arose against the hard, cruel spirit that had prompted her to turn from all of Ray's attempts at kindly explanation. Bitterly she regretted the harsh words she had uttered when her eyes first fell on that miserable letter; and, like serpent's fangs, the words she had called after him on parting, struck again and again into her own bleeding heart. Restlessly she tossed on her bed all night—the first to discover the approach of a band of Apaches, from the uneasy stamping and the frightened wickering of the mules—she was the only one who insisted that Tucson's bark could be heard among the gang ofcoyotesthat made night hideous with their howls. With the first gleam of the coming day she was up; and, in spite of all her brother-in-law could say, in spite of the suspicious footprints that marked the ground in the neighborhood of the mule-corral, she started for home, alone and unprotected, as she had come the night before.
The gorgeous sunrise had no charm for her; unheeding, her eye passed over the landscape, that was like the smile of a fair, false woman—soft and alluring to the eye—a bright mask only, veiling death and destruction from those who were blinded by it. When near the town, a small, ragged-looking object came ambling swiftly toward her.
"What—Tucson?" and then, apostrophizing the dog, who crouched in the sand at her feet with a pitiful whine: "You mean little deserter! Couldn't you hold out as long as your master? And I know your master has not come back yet." Norhadhe—though she entered the house with an insane hope that she might meet the grave eyes peering out from the gloom of the darkened hall. After another sharp reprimand, she prepared Tucson's breakfast from a part of her own; and then flew into a passion and drove the dog from the house, because, instead of tasting a mouthful, he insisted on dragging her to the door by the dress-skirt, and barking and howling in turn, when she refused to come.
Later in the morning, when she had occasion to go "down town" for something, she recounted how the dog had shrunk from the fatigues of the prospecting-trip, and had returned to his comfortable quarters at home. "But I drove him from the house; and I guess he has gone to overtake his master now—I don't see him around any more."
Hehadgone to overtake his master—but not alone. The dog's strange bearing had excited suspicion—here, where people are always on the alert for danger and evil of all kinds. Before the sun was well up, a little band of well-armed citizens was on the trail that Oray Granville and his friends had travelled but the day before.
Well for Jenny that her eye never caught the meaning of the looks thrown on her as she passed through the straggling streets back to her own home; well for her that the soft-voicedseñoras, who came to her in the dusk of the evening, could check the word of sympathy that rose from the heart to the lip. Ah, me!
And in Jenny's voice there was a new tone; a new light was in her eye, and—a new greeting in her heart for Cousin Ray. If he would only come soon! Of course, he could not return for a day or two; perhaps not for a week; but when he did come—
"Petra," said Jenny, "you must play me Oray's favorite air to-night"—and she hastened to the corner where the harp of the girl, who was a pet of Mrs. Jenny's, and Ray's too, was generally kept.
"No,señora—no; not this night," remonstrated the girl. "The wind howls so dismally—and there is no moon in the sky; and then, you know, I cannot sing."
Petra was whimsical, and what she said was true: the wind passed with a low, sobbing sound through the bare, wide hall, and swept up to the door, where it shook the lock as with living fingers.
Mrs. Jenny drew back the curtain and laughed.
"In our country, people don't like to own that they're moon-struck; but you are right—the night is black as ink, and—why—there is quite a company coming up the hill toward us, with lights and torches. Going to the governor's house, probably; but who can they be?"
"We can slip out of the back-door, directly, and look over to the house: then the men cannot say that we have undue curiosity," suggested Anita, desperately; and Mrs. Jenny dropped the curtain.
Petra's blanched face drooped low, over a book she had snatched up from the table; and Anita's hands were clasped in a silent prayer to the Holy Virgin. But the train came nearer, and—"Hark! they stop here—at this door—it is Ray—Cousin Ray!" And Jenny was on the threshold—where half a dozen gloomy, earnest faces met her gaze.
There was a horse there, too—stamping with a half-frightened motion, and a low, shivering neigh; and as she sprang forward with a shriek—a terrified question rising unconsciously to her lips—a dog flew at her with an angry howl, tearing at her garments, and making frantic efforts to prevent her touching the motionless form on the back of the horse.
To Jenny's ear the dog's wild yells spoke terribly plain her own cruel "Never—never—never!" but among the men there was a hasty murmur that the beast had gone mad, from running so long without food and water. There was a flash and a sharp report—Tucson's career had come to a close. And Jenny lay fainting in the arms of the sobbing women.
That many strange and wonderful things happened in early times in California, is so trite a saying that I hardly dare repeat it. As my story, however, is neither harrowing nor sentimental, I hope I may venture to bring it before the reader.
Long before the great Overland Railroad was built, there entered one day one of the largest mercantile establishments in San Francisco a handsome, athletic man, whose fresh, kindly face showed a record of barely five-and-twenty years, and whose slender fingers belied the iron strength with which he could hold and tighten the threads forming the net into which malefactors are said, sooner or later, always to run. If hewasa detective officer, he had friends, because he had a warm heart; and in spite of all the dark phases of life that were brought to his notice every day, he had not learned to disbelieve in the bright side, or the better instincts of humanity.
The chief clerk of this establishment was Captain Herbert's (the detective officer's) most intimate friend, and he had come to bid him good-bye—perchance to charge him to guard the "fatherless and the widowed," should the trip on which he was about to start out end disastrously to him. "Early Californians" realized, better than any other class of people, the uncertainty of life—particularly with those who had to cope with the desperadoes of that time; and the captain intended to start out as usual—with the determination to do or to die.
"By-the-by," said young Taylor, laughing, to the senior partner of the firm, studying the morning paper in the counting-room, "Mr. McDonald has been silent for so long that I think it would be a good job, and an economical one, to commission the captain to hunt up the junior partner of this firm, at the same time, and bring him in with the absconding cattle-agent."
The old gentleman took off his glasses, and folded the paper.
"Yes; it's time Harry was home. I'm really getting uneasy about him. They may have tempted him with the prospect of a whole string of wives as he passed through Salt Lake—whereas here he can have only one."
"Give me hiscarte-de-visite, or the color of his hair and eyes, height, breadth, and weight, and I'll bring him, sure!" laughed the captain.
"Thank you kindly, captain; but I don't know whether Mr. McDonald would appreciate your kind attentions; particularly," continued the old gentleman, "if enhanced by those little steel bracelets you bring into requisition sometimes."
Twenty-four hours later the captain was hurrying, as fast as the stage-horses could run, to Salt Lake City, where, it was surmised, the dishonest cattle-agent would be found. A few hours' vigorous hunt convinced the captain that the object of his search was not there—circumstances pointing backward to one of the smaller places he had passed on his journey thither;—and the next stage that left had the captain for its occupant again. The only other passenger beside the captain and his one man, was a rather slender, well-built person, who, like himself and assistant, had both hands full, literally, to keep from being buried by the sides of bacon with which the stage was filled almost to overflowing.
When night set in, the coats of the captain and his man,and the woollen shirt of their travelling companion, seemed all to have been made of the same material, thanks to the equalizing gloss which the tumbling sides of bacon had spread over everything; but they fought the pork as valiantly as ever true-believing Israelite had done. There was little rest for them through the night, and no sleep; the treacherous bacon-sides, that had been closely packed to serve as pillows, would unexpectedly slip away from under their weary heads; and the bacon barricades, laboriously built, would descend like an avalanche of blows and hard knocks, when left unguarded by the drowsy travellers.
Luckily the bacon was left, the next morning, at a little town where it was wanted more than in the stage coach; and the captain, who had passed nothing on the road without casting on it at least half of his keen, official eye, gathered enough information here to feel confident of finding his game in one of the little new places springing up on the mail-line in Nevada. They reached the place next day at nightfall—it was near the border of California—and the captain saw at a glance that it would be warm work to cage any of the ill-favored birds who flocked about this place. Warm work it would have been under any circumstances: but made more difficult by the fact that the man in question had absconded from his employers in British Columbia somewhere, had merely passed through San Francisco with his plunder—some thirty-six thousand dollars—and could have defied all the law officers in California, if they came, as the captain did, with only the commission of the victimized cattle-owner, but without the authority that the existing relations between British Columbia and the United States made necessary.
Among the gamblers and roughs loafing about the hotel, the captain's quick eye had soon lighted on the right man; and after quietly taking his supper with his companions, he proceeded to arrest him. Of course there was an outcry anda hubbub among the patrons of this hotel, and the captain, who knew where his customer came from, gave the guilty man to understand that lynching a man who was no better than a horse-thief, was nothing unusual in California and Nevada; but that if he, the prisoner, would promise to remain quietly up-stairs in the room with the captain's man, he himself would go back into the bar-room and try to persuade the people to desist from carrying out any horrible plans they might have formed. The prisoner seemed to feel weak in the knees; asked permission to lie down, and sadly but gently extended his hands to the alluring steel wristlets which the captain persuasively held out. Returning to the bar-room, the latter singled out the head bully, approached him confidentially, and whispered that on him he must depend for assistance in keeping his obstreperous prisoner from breaking away; that he himself and his assistant were so tired out with a three-nights' ride and the fruitless chase, that they could hardly keep their eyes open; and that after seeing the landlord he would return and consult how they had best manage to keep their man safe.
From there the captain went straight to the room of the stranger who had come in the stage with him; to him he told all the circumstances of the case, and asked for his help. He was not mistaken in the man; and the stranger at once expressed his determination to aid the side of the law and the right. Proceeding together to the room of the prisoner, the captain's assistant was instructed to procure, as secretly as possible, a conveyance for himself, the stranger, and the prisoner, to the next town—already in California—some thirty miles away. Then there were more dark fears expressed concerning mobs and lawless proceedings, and hints thrown out, suggestive of the contempt in which horse-thieves and the like were held, and a clump of trees was spoken of, that stood close by the hotel and had been found convenient forhanging purposes before this. The stranger was left to guard the prisoner, and the captain made his way to the bar-room, where he was examined in the most friendly and patronizing manner, concerning "that little affair;" how much money the man had taken, whether the captain had yet recovered it, and what he meant to do next. Not a cent of the money had been recovered as yet, the captain said (with thirty-five thousand dollars neatly tucked away about his person), but he hoped that with good help—winking at the most ill-favored among them—he would get both the man and his money safely into California. He was not sparing in treats, and had the crowd drink the health and success of everybody and everything he could think of, till at last, apparently overpowered with sleep, he beckoned the rowdy he had spoken to before to one side. Familiarly tapping him on the shoulder, he said, trustingly:
"Now, old fellow, remember, I depend on you, should any of these rascals here make an attempt to assist my man in getting away from me. I'm tired to death, and if you'd sit up for an hour or two longer, while I take a short nap, I'd take it as a great kindness. At all events, I shall handcuff my prisoner and myself together, so that he cannot leave the bed without my knowledge."
The man swore a thousand oaths that he'd see the captain out of this, and then returned to his companions—to plot the release of the thieving cattle-agent, who, he felt certain, still had the stolen money about him. Tired out and sleepy, the captain certainly was; and, after barricading the door with as much noise as possible (having previously nailed boards across the window with a great deal of hammering), he lay down, and was soon in a sound sleep. Sometime after midnight he was aroused by loud, heavy blows on the door. Of course, the captain knew who was there, and what they wanted, just as well as though each member of the rowdy delegation had sent in a card with name and object of thevisit engraved thereon. After considerable parleying, and some "bloody" threats, the barricade was slowly removed, the door opened, and the captain discovered, admiring a very handsome six-shooter in his hands. His confidential friend, the bully from the bar-room, was spokesman of the gang; and, after some hard staring and harder swearing, the truth dawned on the minds of these worthies, and they withdrew from the room to search the rest of the house before taking farther measures.
The captain resumed his broken slumbers, never dreaming that they would carry proceedings any farther; but next morning, seated on the stage beside the driver, he saw on the road the wreck of a turn-out, and grouped about it a number of the would-be liberators of the night before. They had "raised" a team somewhere, and had started in pursuit of the fat prize, hoping to outwit and outride justice for once. The night being dark and their heads very light, they had run full tilt against a tree in the road, which had the effect of killing one horse, stunning the other, and scattering the inmates of the wagon indiscriminately over the ground. Bully No. 1, and two stars of lesser magnitude, insisted on mounting the stage; and, on arriving at the next town, the captain, fearing that the local authorities would interfere on the representation of these men, had his prisoner on the road again before they had time to take any steps, either legal or illegal.
The horror of the prisoner can be imagined when he learned that these terrible men, who were trying to get him out of the captain's hands in order to mete out justice on their own account, were actually pursuing him—probably with a rope ready to slip around his neck at the first opportunity. He earnestly besought his protectors not to abandon him; for the captain had told him that he had no right to hold him as prisoner, and should have none until certain formalities had been gone through with in San Francisco.
On they flew—without rest—still pursued by the three roughs, who seemed to have gotten their spunk up when theyfound that the captain was determined to escape from them with the man and the money they wanted so much. At last Sacramento was reached, and with it the highest pitch of danger. The prisoner was informed that the men were still following him, and that they would probably make an attempt to take him on the way from the hotel to the boat that was to carry them to San Francisco. All this was strictly true. Captain Herbert had only omitted to mention the fact that there would be among the number of captors a member of the Sacramento police, to which both the roughs had applied, setting forth that the man was illegally restrained of his liberty, etc. The prisoner shook in his boots, and probably wished in his heart that he was safely back in British Columbia, with the cattle unsold, and his employer unrobbed. What was to be done? Time was flying, and hemustbe gotten on to that boat, or he might never see San Francisco; so feared the captain as well as his prisoner.
Again it was the intrepid stranger and travelling companion who came to the rescue. The captain's plan was "hatched" and carried out in a very little while. With a pair of handcuffs clasped on his wrists, and his arms securely tied behind, the obliging stranger was led to the boat by the hard-hearted captain, who handled this free-will prisoner very roughly—while the guilty cattle-agent was slinking along with unfettered hands by the side of the captain's assistant, to whom he "stuck closer than a brother." Just as the captain was hustling his prisoner on to the gang-plank, a policeman stepped from the crowd, laid his hand on the man's shoulder, and, amid the cheering of the roughs and the angry protestations of the captain, led him to the office of the nearest justice. Thebonâ fideprisoner in the meantime slipped unnoticed on board, and was taken out of the cold, and kindly cared for on reaching San Francisco, by the proper authorities, who had been summoned to meet the boat, by a telegram from the captain.
An excited crowd had gathered around the door of theoffice into which the stranger had been brought. The intense disgust of the roughs can be better imagined than described when their eyes and ears convinced them, very much against their will, that their benevolent purposes could not be carried out, and thatthis"prisoner at the bar" had never absconded with anybody's money. They listened in dogged silence to the man's declaration that, far from being restrained of his liberty, he had come with the captain "just for fun," and had worn the handcuffs because they were just an easy fit.
"And what is your name!" thundered the enraged justice.
"Henry Fitzpatrick," was the quiet reply, "merchant, from San Francisco. I fell in with the captain at Salt Lake, where I was stopping on my way home from the States; and as he's a mighty clever fellow, I thought I'd go all the way with him. Sorry you detained us, gentlemen—we both had urgent business in San Francisco."
He went his way in peace, though the real sinner—the thieving cattle-agent—had never been in as much danger of coming to harm at the hands of these men as was this inoffensive person.
The captain saw no more of him till a day or two after his return to San Francisco. Entering the store of his friend Taylor, to tell him of his safe return, he was surprised to see the stranger, Mr. Henry Fitzpatrick, in the counting-room. The senior partner greeted him with:
"Well, well, captain, so you brought Harry home with a pair of handcuffs on, after all! Allow me to introduce my partner, Mr. Henry Fitzpatrick McDonald."
"Happy to meet you again, captain. Itwasfun, wasn't it, though? But I didn't think it was necessary to give those inquisitive chaps at Sacramento the benefit of my full name. I did not want them to say, in case I should ever run for office, that 'McDonald had been led through the country with a pair of handcuffs on.'"
"San Mateo! Stages for Pescadero and Half-Moon Bay!" shouted the conductor, and a dozen or two of passengers left the uncomfortably crowded car.
Some of them entered the handsome equipages in waiting, to carry them to luxurious country residences; a few sought their cottage in the suburbs on foot; others, armed with satchels, shawls, and field-glasses, clambered into and on the stage. Among these, a young lady—whose glossy braids and brilliant eyes were not altogether hidden by a light veil—stood irresolute, when the polite agent addressed her, "Have a seat outside, Miss—with the driver? Very gentlemanly person, Miss; ladies mostly like to ride with him." Her indecision was abruptly ended by the gloved hand of the driver, reaching down without more ado and drawing her up, with the agent's assistance, gently, but irresistibly, out of the crowd and confusion below.
For the first five miles the young girl saw nothing and knew nothing of what was on or in the stage; her eyes were feasting on the scenery, new to her, and fascinating in its beauty of park-like forest-strips and flower-grown dells, where tiny brooks were overhung by tangled brush and the fresh foliage of maple-tree and laurel-wood. The sunshine of a whole San Francisco year seemed concentrated in the bright May morning; and the breeze stirred just enough to turn to the sunlight, now the glossy green side of the leaves on the live oaks, then the dull, grayish side—a coquetry of nature making artistic effects.
At Crystal Springs our friend suddenly became aware that she had thrown aside her veil, and a deep blush covered her features when she saw a wonderfully white hand reaching up with a cluster of roses, evidently meant for her acceptance. The rustling of the trees, the sound of water splashing, the sight of birds, coming in flocks to drink at the fountain, had so held her senses captive, that she did not even know how long they had been stopping at this place; but the bunch of roses, and the deep blue eyes looking up into hers, recalled her to reality. Had she not looked into these eyes before? Had not the stage-driver just such a long, tawny moustache? And was this he, offering the flowers with all the courtliness and easy self-possession of the gentleman? All these thoughts flashed through her brain in a second, and she shrank, momentarily, from what seemed a piece of presumption on the part of the man. But a glance at the sad eyes, and the barely perceptible play of sarcasm around the firm-closed lips, induced her to bend forward and accept the offering, with a grace peculiarly her own.
Not a word was exchanged after he had remounted his seat; but since her veil was dropped she noticed that there were others on the outside of the stage beside herself. There was a female with a brownbarègeveil, and a big lunch-basket on the seat back of her, who had been most intent on studying how the young lady could possibly have fastened on those heavy braids, that they looked so natural; whereas hers were always coming apart, and showing the jute inside. And there were the two tourists—English people probably. They had never disturbed her yet by a word of conversation. Then her thoughts travelled to the inside of the stage, and her eyes rested uneasily for a moment on her neighbor, the driver. Had she only dreamed of the white, well-shaped hand? Large, heavy gloves were on his fingers, and covered the wrist with a stiff gauntlet. Just as stiff was the brim of thelight-colored hat; and it was so provokingly put on that nothing was visible from under it but the end of the long moustache.
But she was soon lost in thought again, and in contemplation of the placid blue ocean, that suddenly shone out beyond the low hills, away off to the right.
"Das Meer erglänzte weit hinaus—"
She turned with a start, to see whether she had dreamed this too, or whether a voice at her elbow had really hummed it—and was just in time to see the driver gather up the lines of the six horses closer, while he strove hard to banish the guilty color from his face.
A stage-driver, who offered her roses with the air of a cavalier of theancien régime, and sang snatches of German music. It made her more thoughtful than ever; and when they reached Spanishtown, and had taken dinner, she had decided on what course to pursue. The driver was on hand to assist her back to her lofty perch, but she said, with perfectsang-froid:
"I think I should prefer to ride inside for the rest of the way; the sun is too hot outside."
Perhaps she had feared to see an expression of wounded feeling on the bronzed face, but it was rather a quizzical look that shot from his eyes as he answered:
"No sun after this; fog from here out—depend upon it."
Her face relaxed. "I don't know that I want to be enveloped in a fog-cloud, either;" but she placed her foot on the wheel, and, without another word, she was assisted back to her old seat. The ice was broken, and the fog that soon rolled in on them did more to thaw it away between them than the sunshine of the morning had been able to do.
After awhile she told him that she was on her way to visit an uncle and aunt, who had taken up their residence at Pescadero, and that she meant to make them many a visit, asshe was fond of them, and they petted her to her heart's content. And she liked the country, too. Then he told her of the pebbles to be found on the beach near Pescadero, and of the attractions of the sea-moss, at a point more distant; and he hoped that he might always have the pleasure of carrying her through the country, whenever she came this way.
"Uncle shall surely let you know when I am coming back, so that I may come with you," she said; "but what is your name?—so that he can find you out."
"Jim!" he replied, grimly, pulling his hat far down over his eyes, apparently indifferent as to the impression his abbreviated appellation might make on her. Then, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, he asked, "And yours?"
"Stella," she answered simply; and they both laughed, and she fastened the roses in her hair before they came to the end of their journey, which had on the whole passed off so pleasantly.
So pleasantly that Stella reverted to it when in Aunt Sarah's comfortable sitting-room, where Uncle Herbert was allowed to smoke his after-dinner cigar.
"I should like to go back with the same driver; his name is Jim. Do you know him, uncle?" she continued, with the most innocent face, in which a sharper eye than Uncle Herbert's would nevertheless have detected a somewhat heightened color.
"They have nicknamed him 'The Duke,'" he replied, knocking the ashes off his cigar with a thoughtful look, "and they say he is quite a character. Proud and unapproachable, but the best driver on the road, and, so long as no one interferes or asks questions about himself, perfectly obliging, and courteous in his manners."
After the usual round of dissipations, consisting of a sea-bath for the more venturesome, a visit to the pebble-beach, a more extended tour to gather sea-moss, Stella was ready toreturn to San Francisco. To both aunt and uncle she imparted her design of soon revisiting Pescadero, for the purpose of exploring the distant hills, with their dark forests, where the redwood was said to reach a circumference of sixteen feet, which the wise little lady would not believe till her own eyes had proved it. The old couple were without children, and nothing could be more welcome than the niece's prospective visits.
Stella thought she could see a sudden light flash over the gloomy face with the sunburnt moustache when she came out of the waiting-room to mount the stage, for she naturally wished to view in the light of the morning sun the scenery on which the evening shadows had lain when she came. Not that she saw much of it, after all; the fog prevented her from seeing what her veil did not shut out. But the sun breaking through the fog suddenly and driving it back, the sky became clear, her companion said, "heaven smiled once more;" and while he spoke he was careful to manipulate the veil she had dropped, in such a manner that it found its way into his coat-pocket, from where, he was determined, it was not to be unearthed till the steeples of San Mateo should come into sight.
He listened with such an air of interest to Stella's recital of all she had seen, that it did not strike her till after a long while that she had really sustained conversation altogether on her side; and when she grew quite still after this, he made no effort to draw her on or speak himself. But when they approached the long, steep bridge across the Toanitas, and rolled along close by the sea, where the waves dashed against the crags with angry roar, through which there wept and moaned a bitter grief and sighed a forlorn hope of peace to come, he pushed his hat back with an impatient motion, and, gazing moodily into the waters, he muttered:
"Bleib Du in Deinen Meerestiefen Wahnsinniger Traum."
"Do you really read Heine in the original?" she asked, quickly.
"And only a stage-driver," he returned, with the old sarcasm, seeing that she hesitated. "Yes; I read Heine in German—or did. I read nothing now. I drive stage."
There was painful silence; an apology would have made matters worse; but seeing the grieved expression on her face, he continued, in his gentlest voice, "You say you are coming this way again in the course of the season—coming with me—in my stage? You wonder how I came to be stage-driver; when we are better acquainted, and you think it worth while to remind me of my promise, I will tell you my story."
"And forgive me now?" she asked, extending her hand. The glove came off his right hand, and the fingers that clasped hers were not less white and soft, but strong they looked—strong as iron. "Thanks," she said; and he felt, somehow, that she wanted her veil just then, and he pretended to discover it, by chance, on the seat.
In the course of the season she came again—more than once—coming always when she knew she would meet his stage at the San Mateo depot.
One bright day in October, when, after the drought of the long summer, the earth had been refreshed by generous autumn showers, Stella again sat beside him, high up, on the driver's seat. The same azure was in the sky, the same deep blue on the waters; it was all as it had been the day she first saw the tangled wildwood by the brook, the spreading live-oak by the roadside—only, the foliage on the brush had changed its colors to deep-red and yellow.
"You once said," began Stella, timidly—for she had learned that his temper was very uneven—"that if I reminded you of your promise when we were better acquainted, you would tell me your story."
He turned and looked steadily into her faltering eyes amoment, then drew his hat down over his brows, and commenced, without further preliminaries:
"Her name was Sylvia—and her eyes were as deep as a well; so deep that I don't think I ever quite fathomed them. When my mother died, she said we were both young, and we must not be married until at least a year had passed over my mother's grave. I was touched with the sympathy she displayed on this sorrowful occasion; so was my father. I was his only son, and would undoubtedly fall heir to his wealth—great wealth—after his death. I had grown up as rich men's only sons generally grow up; had visited schools, colleges, universities; was called good-looking, a clever fellow generally, the best driver of a four-in-hand, the best shot—in short, a great catch for any girl to make. Sylvia told me so herself often. But, after all, I was only the son, you see, and my father might live for twenty years longer, and if Sylvia married me, she married only a prospect—whereas, if she married my father, she was the wife of a wealthy man at once. I had not been brought up to business habits, as Sylvia pointed out, and if my father ever became displeased with me—of which he showed strong symptoms about this time—I should be thrown on the world with a wife as helpless as myself, and as poor. For Sylvia, though brought up among aristocratic relatives, was as poor as a church mouse. What need to make many words? She married my father before the year was out, and I left home secretly on the morning of their wedding-day, with never a cent of the riches which had bought my best-beloved to be my father's bride—never a dollar of all the wealth I had been taught to look upon as my own.