Francis Bret Harte 1837 - 1902
Francis Bret Harte (August 25, 1837 - May 6, 1902) was an American
author and poet, who worked in a number of different professional
capacities including miner, teacher, messenger and journalist before
turning to full time writing in 1871.
Bret Harte moved to California in 1853 and spent part of his life in a
mining camp near Humboldt Bay (the current town of Arcata), a setting
which provided material for some of his works. While THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP
(published in 1968) made Bret Harte famous nationwide and helped him to
land a writing contract with a publisher in 1871, he faltered and was
without a contract by 1872.
In 1878 Bret Harte was appointed as United
States Consul in Krefeld, Germany and then to Glasgow in 1880. He spent
thirty years in Europe, moving to London in 1885. He died in England
of throat cancer in 1902.
Bret Harte's literary output improved while he was in Europe and helped
to revive his popularity. THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT and TENNESSEE'S
PARTNER join THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP on the list of his influential
works.
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker
Flat on the morning of the 23d of November, 1850, he was conscious of
a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or
three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, and
exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air,
which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.
Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these
indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was
another question. "I reckon they're after somebody," he reflected;
"likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with
which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his
neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.
In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had lately
suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses,
and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous
reaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that
had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of
all improper persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men
who were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch,
and temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable
characters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It is
but due to the sex, however, to state that their impropriety was
professional, and it was only in such easily established standards of
evil that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this
category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible
example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets
of the sums he had won from them. "It's again justice," said Jim
Wheeler, "to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp an entire
stranger carry away our money." But a crude sentiment of equity
residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win
from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.
Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the
less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was
too much of a gambler not to accept fate. With him life was at best an
uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the
dealer.
A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat
to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was
known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the
armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young
woman familiarly known as the "Duchess"; another who had won the title
of "Mother Shipton"; and "Uncle Billy," a suspected sluice-robber
and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the
spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only when the
gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the
leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to
return at the peril of their lives.
As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a
few hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from Mother
Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The
philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to
Mother Shipton's desire to cut somebody's heart out, to the repeated
statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the
alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode
forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic of his class, he
insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, "Five Spot," for the
sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw
the party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her
somewhat draggle plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton
eyed the possessor of "Five Spot" with malevolence, and Uncle Billy
included the whole party in one sweeping anathema.
The road to Sandy Bar a camp that, not having as yet experienced the
regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer
some invitation to the emigrants lay over a steep mountain range. It
was distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced season, the party
soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills into
the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras.
The trail was narrow and
difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the
ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party
halted.
The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre,
surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite,
sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked
the valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp,
had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half
the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished; and the party were not
equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his
companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of
"throwing up their hand before the game was played out." But they were
furnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of
food, fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it
was not long before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle
Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the
Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone
remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which
required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his
own language, he "couldn't afford it." As he gazed at his recumbent
fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits
of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him.
He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands
and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits,
and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his
weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him.
Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which,
singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for
which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a
thousand feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky,
ominously clouded; at the valley below, already deepening into shadow.
And, doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.
A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the
new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as the
"Innocent," of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over
a "little game," and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire
fortune amounting to some forty dollars of that guileless youth.
After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator
behind the door and thus addressed him: "Tommy, you're a good little
man, but you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't try it over again." He
then handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and
so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.
There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic
greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker
Flat to seek his fortune. "Alone ?" No, not exactly alone; in fact
(a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurst
remember Piney ? She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance
House ? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had
objected, and so they had run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be
married, and here they were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it
was they had found a place to camp, and company. All this the Innocent
delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen,
emerged from behind the pine-tree where she had been blushing unseen,
and rode to the side of her lover.
Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less
with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not
fortunate. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to
kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was
sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst's kick a superior power that
would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson
from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that
there was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily,
the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was
provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the
discovery of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. "Piney can
stay with Mrs. Oakhurst," said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess,
"and I can shift for myself."
Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst's admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from
bursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled to
retire up the caon until he could recover his gravity. There he
confided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg,
contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned
to the party, he found them seated by a fire for the air had
grown strangely chill and the sky overcast in apparently amicable
conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlish
fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and
animation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holding
forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother
Shipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability. "Is this yer a
d...d picnic ?" said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the
sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in the
foreground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that
disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he
felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth.
As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked
the tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy
aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine-boughs, was
set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted they unaffectedly
exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard
above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother
Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence
of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was
replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes
were asleep.
Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and
cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing
strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave
it snow !
He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers,
for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had
been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain and
a curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been
tethered; they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly
disappearing in the snow.
The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with
his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered
peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the
virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though
attended by celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket
over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn.
It came slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes, that dazzled and
confused the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared
magically changed. He looked over the valley, and summed up the
present and future in two words "Snowed in !"
A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the
party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the felonious
fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence
they might last ten days longer. "That is," said Mr. Oakhurst, sotto
voce to the Innocent, "if you're willing to board us. If you
ain't and perhaps you'd better not you can wait till Uncle Billy
gets back with provisions." For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could
not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy's rascality, and so offered
the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally
stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother
Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate's defection.
"They'll find out the truth about us all when they find out
anything," he added, significantly, "and there's no good frightening
them now."
Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of
Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced
seclusion. "We'll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow'll
melt, and we'll all go back together." The cheerful gayety of the
young man and Mr. Oakhurst's calm infected the others. The Innocent,
with the aid of pine-boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roofless
cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the
interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that
provincial maiden to their fullest extent. "I reckon now you're used
to fine things at Poker Flat," said Piney. The Duchess turned away
sharply to conceal something that reddened her cheeks through
their professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to
"chatter." But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the
trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He
stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted
to the whiskey, which he had prudently cachd . "And yet it don't
somehow sound like whiskey," said the gambler. It was not until he
caught sight of the blazing fire through the still blinding storm and
the group around it that he settled to the conviction that it was
"square fun."
Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the whiskey as
something debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say.
It was certain that, in Mother Shipton's words, he "didn't say
cards once," during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an
accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his
pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation
of this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant
melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair
of bone castanets. But the crowning festivity of the evening was
reached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands,
sang with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a certain
defiant tone and Covenanter's swing to its chorus, rather than any
devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at
last joined in the refrain:
” I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I'm bound to die in His army.”
The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable
group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token
of the vow.
At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the
stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose
professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible
amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow
managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused
himself to the Innocent by saying that he had "often been a week
without sleep." "Doing what ?" asked Tom. "Poker !" replied Oakhurst,
sententiously; "when a man gets a streak of luck nigger luck he
don't get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck," continued the
gambler, reflectively, "is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it
for certain is that it's bound to change. And it's finding out when
it's going to change that makes you. We've had a streak of bad luck
since we left Poker Flat you come along, and slap you get into it,
too. If you can hold your cards right along, you're all right. For,"
added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance:
” I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I'm bound to die in His army.”
The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained
valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of
provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of
that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the
wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it
revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut a hopeless,
uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to
which the castaways still clung. Through the marvellously clear air
the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away.
Mother Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky
fastness hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her last
vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a
certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informed
the Duchess. "Just you go out there and cuss, and see." She then set
herself to the task of amusing "the child," as she and the Duchess
were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a
soothing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the fact
that she didn't swear and wasn't improper.
When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the
accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the
flickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching
void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by
Piney story-telling. Neither Mr., Oakhurst nor his female companions
caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have
failed, too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced
upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the Iliad . He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that
poem having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the
words in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of
that night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully
and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the caon
seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened
with quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in the
fate of "Ash-heels," as the Innocent persisted in denominating the
"swift-footed Achilles."
So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed
over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again
from leaden skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by day
closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked
from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered
twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to
replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now
half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers
turned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other's eyes, and
were happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game
before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed
the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton once the strongest of the
party seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she
called Oakhurst to her side. "I'm going," she said, in a voice of
querulous weakness, "but don't say anything about it. Don't waken the
kids. Take the bundle from under my head and open it." Mr. Oakhurst
did so. It contained Mother Shipton's rations for the last week,
untouched. "Give 'em to the child," she said, pointing to the sleeping
Piney. "You've starved yourself," said the gambler. "That's what they
call it," said the woman, querulously, as she lay down again, and,
turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.
The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was
forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the
snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside and showed him a pair of
snow-shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle. "There's
one chance in a hundred to save her yet," he said, pointing to Piney;
"but it's there," he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. "If you can
reach there in two days she's safe." "And you ?" asked Tom Simson.
"I'll stay here," was the curt reply.
The lovers parted with a long embrace. "You are not going, too ?" said
the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany
him. "As far as the caon," he replied. He turned suddenly and kissed
the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame and her trembling limbs
rigid with amazement.
Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the
whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that some
one had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days
longer. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.
The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other's
faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting the
position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the
Duchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That
night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the
protecting pines, invaded the very hut.
Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which
gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept
closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: "Piney, can you
pray ?" "No, dear," said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowing
exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney's
shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer
pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they
fell asleep.
The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of
snow, shaken from the long pine-boughs, flew like white-winged birds,
and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted
clouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain,
all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle
mercifully flung from above.
They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voices
and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers
brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told,
from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was she that had
sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away,
leaving them still locked in each other's arms.
But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine-trees, they
found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie-knife. It
bore the following, written in pencil, in a firm hand:
BENEATH THIS TREELIES THE BODYOFJOHN OAKHURST,WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCKON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850,ANDHANDED IN HIS CHECKSON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850.
And pulseless and cold, with a derringer by his side and a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.
THE MERMAID OF LIGHTHOUSE POINT
Some forty years ago, on the northern coast of California, near the
Golden Gate, stood a lighthouse. Of a primitive class, since superseded
by a building more in keeping with the growing magnitude of the adjacent
port, it attracted little attention from the desolate shore, and, it
was alleged, still less from the desolate sea beyond. A gray structure
of timber, stone, and glass, it was buffeted and harried by the constant
trade winds, baked by the unclouded six months' sun, lost for a few
hours in the afternoon sea-fog, and laughed over by circling guillemots
from the Farallones. It was kept by a recluse a preoccupied man of
scientific tastes, who, in shameless contrast to his fellow immigrants,
had applied to the government for this scarcely lucrative position as a
means of securing the seclusion he valued more than gold. Some believed
that he was the victim of an early disappointment in love a view
charitably taken by those who also believed that the government would
not have appointed "a crank" to a position of responsibility. Howbeit,
he fulfilled his duties, and, with the assistance of an Indian, even
cultivated a small patch of ground beside the lighthouse. His isolation
was complete! There was little to attract wanderers here: the nearest
mines were fifty miles away; the virgin forest on the mountains inland
were penetrated only by sawmills and woodmen from the Bay settlements,
equally remote. Although by the shore-line the lights of the great port
were sometimes plainly visible, yet the solitude around him was peopled
only by Indians, a branch of the great northern tribe of
"root-diggers," peaceful and simple in their habits, as yet undisturbed
by the white man, nor stirred into antagonism by aggression.
Civilization only touched him at stated intervals, and then by the more
expeditious sea from the government boat that brought him supplies. But
for his contiguity to the perpetual turmoil of wind and sea, he might
have passed a restful Arcadian life in his surroundings; for even his
solitude was sometimes haunted by this faint reminder of the great port
hard by that pulsated with an equal unrest. Nevertheless, the sands
before his door and the rocks behind him seemed to have been untrodden
by any other white man's foot since their upheaval from the ocean. It
was true that the little bay beside him was marked on the map as "Sir
Francis Drake's Bay," tradition having located it as the spot where that
ingenious pirate and empire-maker had once landed his vessels and
scraped the barnacles from his adventurous keels. But of this Edgar
Pomfrey or "Captain Pomfrey," as he was called by virtue of his
half-nautical office had thought little.
For the first six months he had thoroughly enjoyed his seclusion. In the
company of his books, of which he had brought such a fair store that
their shelves lined his snug corners to the exclusion of more
comfortable furniture, he found his principal recreation. Even his
unwonted manual labor, the trimming of his lamp and cleaning of his
reflectors, and his personal housekeeping, in which his Indian help at
times assisted, he found a novel and interesting occupation. For outdoor
exercise, a ramble on the sands, a climb to the rocky upland, or a pull
in the lighthouse boat, amply sufficed him. "Crank" as he was supposed
to be, he was sane enough to guard against any of those early lapses
into barbarism which marked the lives of some solitary gold-miners. His
own taste, as well as the duty of his office, kept his person and
habitation sweet and clean, and his habits regular. Even the little
cultivated patch of ground on the lee side of the tower was symmetrical
and well ordered. Thus the outward light of Captain Pomfrey shone forth
over the wilderness of shore and wave, even like his beacon, whatever
his inward illumination may have been.
It was a bright summer morning, remarkable even in the monotonous
excellence of the season, with a slight touch of warmth which the
invincible Northwest Trades had not yet chilled. There was still a faint
haze off the coast, as if last night's fog had been caught in the quick
sunshine, and the shining sands were hot, but without the usual
dazzling glare. A faint perfume from a quaint lilac-colored
beach-flower, whose clustering heads dotted the sand like bits of blown
spume, took the place of that smell of the sea which the odorless
Pacific lacked. A few rocks, half a mile away, lifted themselves above
the ebb tide at varying heights as they lay on the trough of the swell,
were crested with foam by a striking surge, or cleanly erased in the
full sweep of the sea. Beside, and partly upon one of the higher rocks, a
singular object was moving.
Pomfrey was interested but not startled. He had once or twice seen seals
disporting on these rocks, and on one occasion a sea-lion, an estray
from the familiar rocks on the other side of the Golden Gate. But he
ceased work in his garden patch, and coming to his house, exchanged his
hoe for a telescope. When he got the mystery in focus he suddenly
stopped and rubbed the object-glass with his handkerchief. But even when
he applied the glass to his eye for a second time, he could scarcely
believe his eyesight. For the object seemed to be a woman, the lower
part of her figure submerged in the sea, her long hair depending over
her shoulders and waist. There was nothing in her attitude to suggest
terror or that she was the victim of some accident. She moved slowly and
complacently with the sea, and even--a more staggering
suggestion appeared to be combing out the strands of her long hair with
her fingers. With her body half concealed she might have been a
mermaid !
He swept the foreshore and horizon with his glass; there was neither
boat nor ship nor anything that moved, except the long swell of the
Pacific. She could have come only from the sea; for to reach the rocks
by land she would have had to pass before the lighthouse, while the
narrow strip of shore which curved northward beyond his range of view he
knew was inhabited only by Indians. But the woman was unhesitatingly
and appallingly white, and her hair light even to a golden gleam in the
sunshine.
Pomfrey was a gentleman, and as such was amazed, dismayed, and cruelly
embarrassed. If she was a simple bather from some vicinity hitherto
unknown and unsuspected by him, it was clearly his business to shut up
his glass and go back to his garden patch although the propinquity of
himself and the lighthouse must have been as plainly visible to her as
she was to him. On the other hand, if she was the survivor of some wreck
and in distress or, as he even fancied from her reckless manner,
bereft of her senses, his duty to rescue her was equally clear. In his
dilemma he determined upon a compromise and ran to his boat. He would
pull out to sea, pass between the rocks and the curving sand-spit, and
examine the sands and sea more closely for signs of wreckage, or some
overlooked waiting boat near the shore. He would be within hail if she
needed him, or she could escape to her boat if she had one.
In another moment his boat was lifting on the swell towards the rocks.
He pulled quickly, occasionally turning to note that the strange figure,
whose movements were quite discernible to the naked eye, was still
there, but gazing more earnestly towards the nearest shore for any sign
of life or occupation. In ten minutes he had reached the curve where the
trend opened northward, and the long line of shore stretched before
him. He swept it eagerly with a single searching glance. Sea and shore
were empty. He turned quickly to the rock, scarcely a hundred yards on
his beam. It was empty too ! Forgetting his previous scruples, he pulled
directly for it until his keel grated on its submerged base. There was
nothing there but the rock, slippery with the yellow-green slime of
seaweed and kelp neither trace nor sign of the figure that had occupied
it a moment ago. He pulled around it; there was no cleft or
hiding-place. For an instant his heart leaped at the sight of something
white, caught in a jagged tooth of the outlying reef, but it was only
the bleached fragment of a bamboo orange-crate, cast from the deck of
some South Sea trader, such as often strewed the beach. He lay off the
rock, keeping way in the swell, and scrutinizing the glittering sea. At
last he pulled back to the lighthouse, perplexed and discomfited.
Was it simply a sporting seal, transformed by some trick of his vision ?
But he had seen it through his glass, and now remembered such details as
the face and features framed in their contour of golden hair, and
believed he could even have identified them. He examined the rock again
with his glass, and was surprised to see how clearly it was outlined now
in its barren loneliness. Yet he must have been mistaken. His
scientific and accurate mind allowed of no errant fancy, and he had
always sneered at the marvelous as the result of hasty or superficial
observation. He was a little worried at this lapse of his healthy
accuracy, fearing that it might be the result of his seclusion and
loneliness, akin to the visions of the recluse and solitary. It was
strange, too, that it should take the shape of a woman; for Edgar
Pomfrey had a story the usual old and foolish one.
Then his thoughts took a lighter phase, and he turned to the memory of
his books, and finally to the books themselves. From a shelf he picked
out a volume of old voyages, and turned to a remembered passage: "In
other seas doe abound marvells soche as Sea Spyders of the bigness of a
pinnace, the wich they have been known to attack and destroy; Sea Vypers
which reach to the top of a goodly maste, whereby they are able to draw
marinners from the rigging by the suction of their breathes; and Devill
Fyshe, which vomit fire by night which makyth the sea to shine
prodigiously, and mermaydes. They are half fyshe and half mayde of grate
Beauty, and have been seen of divers godly and creditable witnesses
swymming beside rocks, hidden to their waist in the sea, combing of
their hayres, to the help of whych they carry a small mirrore of the
bigness of their fingers." Pomfrey laid the book aside with a faint
smile. To even this credulity he might come !
Nevertheless, he used the telescope again that day. But there was no
repetition of the incident, and he was forced to believe that he had
been the victim of some extraordinary illusion. The next morning,
however, with his calmer judgment doubts began to visit him. There was
no one of whom he could make inquiries but his Indian helper, and their
conversation had usually been restricted to the language of signs or the
use of a few words he had picked up. He contrived, however, to ask if
there was a "waugee" (white) woman in the neighborhood. The Indian shook
his head in surprise. There was no "waugee" nearer than the remote
mountain-ridge to which he pointed. Pomfrey was obliged to be content
with this. Even had his vocabulary been larger, he would as soon have
thought of revealing the embarrassing secret of this woman, whom he
believed to be of his own race, to a mere barbarian as he would of
asking him to verify his own impressions by allowing him to look at her
that morning. The next day, however, something happened which forced him
to resume his inquiries. He was rowing around the curving spot when he
saw a number of black objects on the northern sands moving in and out of
the surf, which he presently made out as Indians. A nearer approach
satisfied him that they were wading squaws and children gathering
seaweed and shells. He would have pushed his acquaintance still nearer,
but as his boat rounded the point, with one accord they all scuttled
away like frightened sandpipers. Pomfrey, on his return, asked his
Indian retainer if they could swim. "Oh, yes !" "As far as the rock ?"
"Yes." Yet Pomfrey was not satisfied. The color of his strange
apparition remained unaccounted for, and it was not that of an Indian
woman.
Trifling events linger long in a monotonous existence, and it was nearly
a week before Pomfrey gave up his daily telescopic inspection of the
rock. Then he fell back upon his books again, and, oddly enough, upon
another volume of voyages, and so chanced upon the account of Sir
Francis Drake's occupation of the bay before him. He had always thought
it strange that the great adventurer had left no trace or sign of his
sojourn there; still stranger that he should have overlooked the
presence of gold, known even to the Indians themselves, and have lost a
discovery far beyond his wildest dreams and a treasure to which the
cargoes of those Philippine galleons he had more or less successfully
intercepted were trifles. Had the restless explorer been content to pace
those dreary sands during three weeks of inactivity, with no thought of
penetrating the inland forests behind the range, or of even entering
the nobler bay beyond ? Or was the location of the spot a mere tradition
as wild and unsupported as the "marvells" of the other volume ? Pomfrey
had the skepticism of the scientific, inquiring mind.
Two weeks had passed and he was returning from a long climb inland, when
he stopped to rest in his descent to the sea. The panorama of the shore
was before him, from its uttermost limit to the lighthouse on the
northern point. The sun was still one hour high, it would take him about
that time to reach home. But from this coign of vantage he could
see what he had not before observed that what he had always believed
was a little cove on the northern shore was really the estuary of a
small stream which rose near him and eventually descended into the ocean
at that point. He could also see that beside it was a long low erection
of some kind, covered with thatched brush, which looked like a
"barrow," yet showed signs of habitation in the slight smoke that rose
from it and drifted inland. It was not far out of his way, and he
resolved to return in that direction. On his way down he once or twice
heard the barking of an Indian dog, and knew that he must be in the
vicinity of an encampment. A camp-fire, with the ashes yet warm, proved
that he was on the trail of one of the nomadic tribes, but the declining
sun warned him to hasten home to his duty. When he at last reached the
estuary, he found that the building beside it was little else than a
long hut, whose thatched and mud-plastered mound-like roof gave it the
appearance of a cave. Its single opening and entrance abutted on the
water's edge, and the smoke he had noticed rolled through this entrance
from a smouldering fire within. Pomfrey had little difficulty in
recognizing the purpose of this strange structure from the accounts he
had heard from "loggers" of the Indian customs. The cave was a
"sweat-house" a calorific chamber in which the Indians closely shut
themselves, naked, with a "smudge" or smouldering fire of leaves, until,
perspiring and half suffocated, they rushed from the entrance and threw
themselves into the water before it. The still smouldering fire told
him that the house had been used that morning, and he made no doubt that
the Indians were encamped near by. He would have liked to pursue his
researches further, but he found he had already trespassed upon his
remaining time, and he turned somewhat abruptly away so abruptly, in
fact, that a figure, which had evidently been cautiously following him
at a distance, had not time to get away. His heart leaped with
astonishment. It was the woman he had seen on the rock.
Although her native dress now only disclosed her head and hands, there
was no doubt about her color, and it was distinctly white, save for the
tanning of exposure and a slight red ocher marking on her low forehead.
And her hair, long and unkempt as it was, showed that he had not erred
in his first impression of it. It was a tawny flaxen, with fainter
bleaching where the sun had touched it most. Her eyes were of a clear
Northern blue. Her dress, which was quite distinctive in that it was
neither the cast off finery of civilization nor the cheap "government"
flannels and calicoes usually worn by the Californian tribes, was purely
native, and of fringed deerskin, and consisted of a long, loose shirt
and leggings worked with bright feathers and colored shells. A necklace,
also of shells and fancy pebbles, hung round her neck. She seemed to be
a fully developed woman, in spite of the girlishness of her flowing
hair, and notwithstanding the shapeless length of her gaberdine- like
garment, taller than the ordinary squaw.
Pomfrey saw all this in a single flash of perception, for the next
instant she was gone, disappearing behind the sweat-house. He ran after
her, catching sight of her again, half doubled up, in the characteristic
Indian trot, dodging around rocks and low bushes as she fled along the
banks of the stream. But for her distinguishing hair, she looked in her
flight like an ordinary frightened squaw. This, which gave a sense of
unman liness and ridicule to his own pursuit of her, with the fact that
his hour of duty was drawing near and he was still far from the
lighthouse, checked him in full career, and he turned regretfully away.
He had called after her at first, and she had not heeded him. What he
would have said to her he did not know. He hastened home discomfited,
even embarrassed yet excited to a degree he had not deemed possible in
himself.
During the morning his thoughts were full of her. Theory after theory
for her strange existence there he examined and dismissed. His first
thought, that she was a white woman - some settler's wife - masquerading
in Indian garb, he abandoned when he saw her moving; no white woman
could imitate that Indian trot, nor would remember to attempt it if she
were frightened. The idea that she was a captive white, held by the
Indians, became ridiculous when he thought of the nearness of
civilization and the peaceful, timid character of the "digger" tribes.
That she was some unfortunate demented creature who had escaped from her
keeper and wandered into the wilderness, a glance at her clear, frank,
intelligent, curious eyes had contradicted. There was but one theory
left the most sensible and practical one that she was the offspring of
some white man and Indian squaw. Yet this he found, oddly enough, the
least palatable to his fancy. And the few half-breeds he had seen were
not at all like her.
The next morning he had recourse to his Indian retainer, "Jim." With
infinite difficulty, protraction, and not a little embarrassment, he
finally made him understand that he had seen a "white squaw" near the
"sweat-house," and that he wanted to know more about her. With equal
difficulty Jim finally recognized the fact of the existence of such a
person, but immediately afterwards shook his head in an emphatic
negation. With greater difficulty and greater mortification Pomfrey
presently ascertained that Jim's negative referred to a supposed
abduction of the woman which he understood that his employer seriously
contemplated. But he also learned that she was a real Indian, and that
there were three or four others like her, male and female, in that
vicinity; that from a "skeena mowitch" (little baby) they were all like
that, and that their parents were of the same color, but never a white
or "waugee" man or woman among them; that they were looked upon as a
distinct and superior caste of Indians, and enjoyed certain privileges
with the tribe; that they superstitiously avoided white men, of whom
they had the greatest fear, and that they were protected in this by the
other Indians; that it was marvelous and almost beyond belief that
Pomfrey had been able to see one, for no other white man had, or was
even aware of their existence.
How much of this he actually understood, how much of it was lying and
due to Jim's belief that he wished to abduct the fair stranger, Pomfrey
was unable to determine. There was enough, however, to excite his
curiosity strongly and occupy his mind to the exclusion of his
books--save one. Among his smaller volumes he had found a travel book of
the "Chinook Jargon," with a lexicon of many of the words commonly used
by the Northern Pacific tribes. An hour or two's trial with the
astonished Jim gave him an increased vocabulary and a new occupation.
Each day the incongruous pair took a lesson from the lexicon. In a week
Pomfrey felt he would be able to accost the mysterious stranger. But he
did not again surprise her in any of his rambles, or even in a later
visit to the sweat-house. He had learned from Jim that the house was
only used by the "bucks," or males, and that her appearance there had
been accidental. He recalled that he had had the impression that she had
been stealthily following him, and the recollection gave him a pleasure
he could not account for. But an incident presently occurred which gave
him a new idea of her relations towards him.
The difficulty of making Jim understand had hitherto prevented Pomfrey
from intrusting him with the care of the lantern; but with the aid of
the lexicon he had been able to make him comprehend its working, and
under Pomfrey's personal guidance the Indian had once or twice lit the
lamp and set its machinery in motion. It remained for him only to test
Jim's unaided capacity, in case of his own absence or illness. It
happened to be a warm, beautiful sunset, when the afternoon fog had for
once delayed its invasion of the shore-line, that he left the lighthouse
to Jim's undivided care, and reclining on a sand-dune still warm from
the sun, lazily watched the result of Jim's first essay. As the twilight
deepened, and the first flash of the lantern strove with the dying
glories of the sun, Pomfrey presently became aware that he was not the
only watcher. A little gray figure creeping on all fours suddenly glided
out of the shadow of another sand-dune and then halted, falling back on
its knees, gazing fixedly at the growing light. It was the woman he had
seen. She was not a dozen yards away, and in her eagerness and utter
absorption in the light had evidently overlooked him. He could see her
face distinctly, her lips parted half in wonder, half with the
breathless absorption of a devotee. A faint sense of disappointment came
over him. It was not him she was watching, but the light! As it swelled
out over the darkening gray sand she turned as if to watch its effect
around her, and caught sight of Pomfrey. With a little startled cry the
first she had uttered she darted away. He did not follow. A moment
before, when he first saw her, an Indian salutation which he had learned
from Jim had risen to his lips, but in the odd feeling which her
fascination of the light had caused him he had not spoken. He watched
her bent figure scuttling away like some frightened animal, with a
critical consciousness that she was really scarce human, and went back
to the lighthouse. He would not run after her again ! Yet that evening he
continued to think of her, and recalled her voice, which struck him now
as having been at once melodious and childlike, and wished he had at
least spoken, and perhaps elicited a reply.
He did not, however, haunt the sweat-house near the river again. Yet he
still continued his lessons with Jim, and in this way, perhaps, although
quite unpremeditatedly, enlisted a humble ally. A week passed in which
he had not alluded to her, when one morning, as he was returning from a
row, Jim met him mysteriously on the beach.
"S'pose him come slow, slow," said Jim gravely, airing his newly
acquired English; "make no noise plenty catchee Indian maiden." The
last epithet was the polite lexicon equivalent of squaw.
Pomfrey, not entirely satisfied in his mind, nevertheless softly
followed the noiselessly gliding Jim to the lighthouse. Here Jim
cautiously opened the door, motioning Pomfrey to enter.
The base of the tower was composed of two living rooms, a storeroom and
oil-tank. As Pomfrey entered, Jim closed the door softly behind him. The
abrupt transition from the glare of the sands and sun to the
semi-darkness of the storeroom at first prevented him from seeing
anything, but he was instantly distracted by a scurrying flutter and
wild beating of the walls, as of a caged bird. In another moment he
could make out the fair stranger, quivering with excitement,
passionately dashing at the barred window, the walls, the locked door,
and circling around the room in her desperate attempt to find an egress,
like a captured seagull. Amazed, mystified, indignant with Jim,
himself, and even his unfortunate captive, Pomfrey called to her in
Chinook to stop, and going to the door, flung it wide open. She darted
by him, raising her soft blue eyes for an instant in a swift, sidelong
glance of half appeal, half-frightened admiration, and rushed out into
the open. But here, to his surprise, she did not run away. On the
contrary, she drew herself up with a dignity that seemed to increase her
height, and walked majestically towards Jim, who at her unexpected exit
had suddenly thrown himself upon the sand, in utterly abject terror and
supplication. She approached him slowly, with one small hand uplifted
in a menacing gesture. The man writhed and squirmed before her. Then she
turned, caught sight of Pomfrey standing in the doorway, and walked
quietly away. Amazed, yet gratified with this new assertion of herself,
Pomfrey respectfully, but alas ! incautiously, called after her. In an
instant, at the sound of his voice, she dropped again into her slouching
Indian trot and glided away over the sandhills.
Pomfrey did not add any reproof of his own to the discomfiture of his
Indian retainer. Neither did he attempt to inquire the secret of this
savage girl's power over him. It was evident he had spoken truly when he
told his master that she was of a superior caste. Pomfrey recalled her
erect and indignant figure standing over the prostrate Jim, and was
again perplexed and disappointed at her sudden lapse into the timid
savage at the sound of his voice. Would not this well-meant but
miserable trick of Jim's have the effect of increasing her unreasoning
animal-like distrust of him ? A few days later brought an unexpected
answer to his question.
It was the hottest hour of the day. He had been fishing off the reef of
rocks where he had first seen her, and had taken in his line and was
leisurely pulling for the lighthouse. Suddenly a little musical cry not
unlike a bird's struck his ear. He lay on his oars and listened. It was
repeated; but this time it was unmistakably recognizable as the voice of
the Indian girl, although he had heard it but once. He turned eagerly
to the rock, but it was empty; he pulled around it, but saw nothing. He
looked towards the shore, and swung his boat in that direction, when
again the cry was repeated with the faintest quaver of a laugh,
apparently on the level of the sea before him. For the first time he
looked down, and there on the crest of a wave not a dozen yards ahead,
danced the yellow hair and laughing eyes of the girl. The frightened
gravity of her look was gone, lost in the flash of her white teeth and
quivering dimples as her dripping face rose above the sea. When their
eyes met she dived again, but quickly reappeared on the other bow,
swimming with lazy, easy strokes, her smiling head thrown back over her
white shoulder, as if luring him to a race. If her smile was a
revelation to him, still more so was this first touch of feminine
coquetry in her attitude. He pulled eagerly towards her; with a few long
overhand strokes she kept her distance, or, if he approached too near,
she dived like a loon, coming up astern of him with the same childlike,
mocking cry. In vain he pursued her, calling her to stop in her own
tongue, and laughingly protested; she easily avoided his boat at every
turn. Suddenly, when they were nearly abreast of the river estuary, she
rose in the water, and, waving her little hands with a gesture of
farewell, turned, and curving her back like a dolphin, leaped into the
surging swell of the estuary bar and was lost in its foam. It would have
been madness for him to have attempted to follow in his boat, and he
saw that she knew it. He waited until her yellow crest appeared in the
smoother water of the river, and then rowed back. In his excitement and
preoccupation he had quite forgotten his long exposure to the sun during
his active exercise, and that he was poorly equipped for the cold
sea-fog which the heat had brought in earlier, and which now was quietly
obliterating sea and shore. This made his progress slower and more
difficult, and by the time he had reached the lighthouse he was chilled
to the bone.
The next morning he woke with a dull headache and great weariness, and
it was with considerable difficulty that he could attend to his duties.
At nightfall, feeling worse, he determined to transfer the care of the
light to Jim, but was amazed to find that he had disappeared, and what
was more ominous, a bottle of spirits which Pomfrey had taken from his
locker the night before had disappeared too. Like all Indians, Jim's
rudimentary knowledge of civilization included "fire-water;" he
evidently had been tempted, had fallen, and was too ashamed or too drunk
to face his master. Pomfrey, however, managed to get the light in order
and working, and then, he scarcely knew how, betook himself to bed in a
state of high fever. He turned from side to side racked by pain, with
burning lips and pulses. Strange fancies beset him; he had noticed when
he lit his light that a strange sail was looming off the estuary a
place where no sail had ever been seen or should be and was relieved
that the lighting of the tower might show the reckless or ignorant
mariner his real bearings for the "Gate." At times he had heard voices
above the familiar song of the surf, and tried to rise from his bed, but
could not. Sometimes these voices were strange, outlandish, dissonant,
in his own language, yet only partly intelligible; but through them
always rang a single voice, musical, familiar, yet of a tongue not his
own hers ! And then, out of his delirium for such it proved afterwards
to be came a strange vision. He thought that he had just lit the light
when, from some strange and unaccountable reason, it suddenly became dim
and defied all his efforts to revive it. To add to his discomfiture, he
could see quite plainly through the lantern a strange-looking vessel
standing in from the sea. She was so clearly out of her course for the
Gate that he knew she had not seen the light, and his limbs trembled
with shame and terror as he tried in vain to rekindle the dying light.
Yet to his surprise the strange ship kept steadily on, passing the
dangerous reef of rocks, until she was actually in the waters of the
bay. But stranger than all, swimming beneath her bows was the golden
head and laughing face of the Indian girl, even as he had seen it the
day before. A strange revulsion of feeling overtook him. Believing that
she was luring the ship to its destruction, he ran out on the beach and
strove to hail the vessel and warn it of its impending doom. But he
could not speak no sound came from his lips. And now his attention was
absorbed by the ship itself. High-bowed and pooped, and curved like the
crescent moon, it was the strangest craft that he had ever seen. Even as
he gazed it glided on nearer and nearer, and at last beached itself
noiselessly on the sands before his own feet. A score of figures as
bizarre and outlandish as the ship itself now thronged its high
forecastle really a castle in shape and warlike purpose and leaped
from its ports. The common seamen were nearly naked to the waist; the
officers looked more like soldiers than sailors. What struck him more
strangely was that they were one and all seemingly unconscious of the
existence of the lighthouse, sauntering up and down carelessly, as if on
some uninhabited strand, and even talking so far as he could
understand their old bookish dialect as if in some hitherto
undiscovered land. Their ignorance of the geography of the whole coast,
and even of the sea from which they came, actually aroused his critical
indignation; their coarse and stupid allusions to the fair Indian
swimmer as the "mermaid" that they had seen upon their bow made him more
furious still. Yet he was helpless to express his contemptuous anger,
or even make them conscious of his presence. Then an interval of
incoherency and utter blankness followed. When he again took up the
thread of his fancy the ship seemed to be lying on her beam ends on the
sand; the strange arrangement of her upper deck and top-hamper, more
like a dwelling than any ship he had ever seen, was fully exposed to
view, while the seamen seemed to be at work with the rudest
contrivances, calking and scraping her barnacled sides. He saw that
phantom crew, when not working, at wassail and festivity; heard the
shouts of drunken roisterers; saw the placing of a guard around some of
the most uncontrollable, and later detected the stealthy escape of half a
dozen sailors inland, amidst the fruitless volley fired upon them from
obsolete blunderbusses. Then his strange vision transported him inland,
where he saw these seamen following some Indian women. Suddenly one of
them turned and ran frenziedly towards him as if seeking succor, closely
pursued by one of the sailors. Pomfrey strove to reach her, struggled
violently with the fearful apathy that seemed to hold his limbs, and
then, as she uttered at last a little musical cry, burst his bonds
and awoke !
As consciousness slowly struggled back to him, he could see the bare
wooden-like walls of his sleeping-room, the locker, the one window
bright with sunlight, the open door of the tank-room, and the little
staircase to the tower. There was a strange smoky and herb-like smell in
the room. He made an effort to rise, but as he did so a small sunburnt
hand was laid gently yet restrainingly upon his shoulder, and he heard
the same musical cry as before, but this time modulated to a girlish
laugh. He raised his head faintly. Half squatting, half kneeling by his
bed was the yellow-haired stranger.
With the recollection of his vision still perplexing him, he said in a weak voice, "Who are you ?"
Her blue eyes met his own with quick intelligence and no trace of her
former timidity. A soft, caressing light had taken its place. Pointing
with her finger to her breast in a childlike gesture, she said,
"Me Olooya."
"Olooya !" He remembered suddenly that Jim had always used that word in
speaking of her, but until then he had always thought it was some Indian
term for her distinct class.
"Olooya," he repeated. Then, with difficulty attempting to use her own tongue, he asked, "When did you come here ?"
"Last night," she answered in the same tongue. "There was no witch-fire
there," she continued, pointing to the tower; "when it came not, Olooya
came ! Olooya found white chief sick and alone. White chief could not get
up ! Olooya lit witch-fire for him."
"You ?" he repeated in astonishment. "I lit it myself."
She looked at him pityingly, as if still recognizing his delirium, and
shook her head. "White chief was sick how can know ? Olooya made
witch-fire."
He cast a hurried glance at his watch hanging on the wall beside him. It
had run down, although he had wound it the last thing before going to
bed. He had evidently been lying there helpless beyond the twenty-four
hours !
He groaned and turned to rise, but she gently forced him down again, and
gave him some herbal infusion, in which he recognized the taste of the
Yerba Buena vine which grew by the river. Then she made him comprehend
in her own tongue that Jim had been decoyed, while drunk, aboard a
certain schooner lying off the shore at a spot where she had seen some
men digging in the sands. She had not gone there, for she was afraid of
the bad men, and a slight return of her former terror came into her
changeful eyes. She knew how to light the witch-light; she reminded him
she had been in the tower before.
"You have saved my light, and perhaps my life," he said weakly, taking her hand.
Possibly she did not understand him, for her only answer was a vague
smile. But the next instant she started up, listening intently, and then
with a frightened cry drew away her hand and suddenly dashed out of the
building. In the midst of his amazement the door was darkened by a
figure a stranger dressed like an ordinary miner. Pausing a moment to
look after the flying Olooya, the man turned and glanced around the
room, and then with a coarse, familiar smile approached Pomfrey.
"Hope I ain't disturbin' ye, but I allowed I'd just be neighborly and
drop in seein' as this is gov'nment property, and me and my pardners,
as American citizens and tax-payers, helps to support it. We're coastin'
from Trinidad down here and prospectin' along the beach for gold in the
sand. Ye seem to hev a mighty soft berth of it here nothing to do and
lots of purty half-breeds hangin' round !"
The man's effrontery was too much for Pomfrey's self-control, weakened
by illness. "It is government property," he answered hotly, "and you
have no more right to intrude upon it than you have to decoy away my
servant, a government employee, during my illness, and jeopardize that
property."
The unexpectedness of this attack, and the sudden revelation of the fact
of Pomfrey's illness in his flushed face and hollow voice apparently
frightened and confused the stranger. He stammered a surly excuse,
backed out of the doorway, and disappeared. An hour later Jim appeared,
crestfallen, remorseful, and extravagantly penitent. Pomfrey was too
weak for reproaches or inquiry, and he was thinking only of Olooya.
She did not return. His recovery in that keen air, aided, as he
sometimes thought, by the herbs she had given him, was almost as rapid
as his illness. The miners did not again intrude upon the lighthouse nor
trouble his seclusion. When he was able to sun himself on the sands, he
could see them in the distance at work on the beach. He reflected that
she would not come back while they were there, and was reconciled. But
one morning Jim appeared, awkward and embarrassed, leading another
Indian, whom he introduced as Olooya's brother. Pomfrey's suspicions
were aroused. Except that the stranger had something of the girl's
superiority of manner, there was no likeness whatever to his fair-haired
acquaintance. But a fury of indignation was added to his suspicions
when he learned the amazing purport of their visit. It was nothing less
than an offer from the alleged brother to sell his sister to Pomfrey for
forty dollars and a jug of whiskey ! Unfortunately, Pomfrey's temper
once more got the better of his judgment. With a scathing exposition of
the laws under which the Indian and white man equally lived, and the
legal punishment of kidnaping, he swept what he believed was the
impostor from his presence. He was scarcely alone again before he
remembered that his imprudence might affect the girl's future access to
him, but it was too late now.
Still he clung to the belief that he should see her when the prospectors
had departed, and he hailed with delight the breaking up of the camp
near the "sweat-house" and the disappearance of the schooner. It seemed
that their gold-seeking was unsuccessful; but Pomfrey was struck, on
visiting the locality, to find that in their excavations in the sand at
the estuary they had uncovered the decaying timbers of a ship's small
boat of some ancient and obsolete construction. This made him think of
his strange dream, with a vague sense of warning which he could not
shake off, and on his return to the lighthouse he took from his shelves a
copy of the old voyages to see how far his fancy had been affected by
his reading. In the account of Drake's visit to the coast he found a
footnote which he had overlooked before, and which ran as follows: "The
Admiral seems to have lost several of his crew by desertion, who were
supposed to have perished miserably by starvation in the inhospitable
interior or by the hands of savages. But later voyagers have suggested
that the deserters married Indian wives, and there is a legend that a
hundred years later a singular race of half-breeds, bearing unmistakable
Anglo-Saxon characteristics, was found in that locality." Pomfrey fell
into a reverie of strange hypotheses and fancies. He resolved that, when
he again saw Olooya, he would question her; her terror of these men
might be simply racial or some hereditary transmission.
But his intention was never fulfilled. For when days and weeks had
elapsed, and he had vainly haunted the river estuary and the rocky reef
before the lighthouse without a sign of her, he overcame his pride
sufficiently to question Jim. The man looked at him with dull
astonishment.
"Olooya gone," he said.
"Gone! where ?"
The Indian made a gesture to seaward which seemed to encompass the whole Pacific.
"How ? With whom ?" repeated his angry yet half-frightened master.
"With white man in ship. You say you no want Olooya--forty dollars too
much. White man give fifty dollars takee Olooya all same."
THE DEVOTION OF ENRIQUEZ
In another chronicle which dealt with the exploits of "Chu Chu," a
Californian mustang, I gave some space to the accomplishments of
Enriquez Saltillo, who assisted me in training her, and who was also
brother to Consuelo Saitillo, the young lady to whom I had freely given
both the mustang and my youthful affections. I consider it a proof of
the superiority of masculine friendship that neither the subsequent
desertion of the mustang nor that of the young lady ever made the
slightest difference to Enriquez or me in our exalted amity. To a
wondering doubt as to what I ever could possibly have seen in his sister
to admire he joined a tolerant skepticism of the whole sex. This he was
wont to express in that marvelous combination of Spanish precision and
California slang for which he was justly famous. "As to thees women and
their little game," he would say, "believe me, my friend, your old Oncle
'Enry is not in it. No; he will ever take a back seat when lofe is
around. For why ? Regard me here! If she is a horse, you shall say, 'She
will buck-jump,' 'She will ess-shy,' 'She will not arrive,' or 'She will
arrive too quick.' But if it is thees women, where are you ? For when
you shall say, 'She will ess-shy,' look you, she will walk straight; or
she will remain tranquil when you think she buck-jump; or else she will
arrive and, look you, you will not. You shall get left. It is ever so.
My father and the brother of my father have both make court to my mother
when she was but a senorita. My father think she have lofe his brother
more. So he say to her: 'It is enofe; tranquillize yourself. I will go. I
will efface myself. Adios! Shake hands ! Ta-ta ! So long ! See you again
in the fall.' And what make my mother ? Regard me ! She marry my
father on the instant ! Of thees women, believe me, Pancho, you shall
know nothing. Not even if they shall make you the son of your father or
his nephew."
I have recalled this characteristic speech to show the general tendency
of Enriquez' convictions at the opening of this little story. It is only
fair to say, however, that his usual attitude toward the sex he so
cheerfully maligned exhibited little apprehension or caution in dealing
with them. Among the frivolous and light-minded intermixture of his race
he moved with great freedom and popularity. He danced well; when we
went to fandangos together his agility and the audacity of his figures
always procured him the prettiest partners, his professed sentiments, I
presume, shielding him from subsequent jealousies, heart burnings, or
envy. I have a vivid recollection of him in the mysteries of the
SEMICUACUA, a somewhat corybantic dance which left much to the invention
of the performers, and very little to the imagination of the spectator.
In one of the figures a gaudy handkerchief, waved more or less
gracefully by dancer and danseuse before the dazzled eyes of each other,
acted as love's signal, and was used to express alternate admiration
and indifference, shyness and audacity, fear and transport, coyness and
coquetry, as the dance proceeded. I need not say that Enriquez'
pantomimic illustration of these emotions was peculiarly extravagant;
but it was always performed and accepted with a gravity that was an
essential feature of the dance. At such times sighs would escape him
which were supposed to portray the incipient stages of passion; snorts
of jealousy burst from him at the suggestion of a rival; he was
overtaken by a sort of St. Vitus's dance that expressed his timidity in
making the first advances of affection; the scorn of his ladylove struck
him with something like a dumb ague; and a single gesture of invitation
from her produced marked delirium. All this was very like Enriquez; but
on the particular occasion to which I refer, I think no one was
prepared to see him begin the figure with the waving of FOUR
handkerchiefs! Yet this he did, pirouetting, capering, brandishing his
silken signals like a ballerina's scarf in the languishment or fire of
passion, until, in a final figure, where the conquered and submitting
fair one usually sinks into the arms of her partner, need it be said
that the ingenious Enriquez was found in the center of the floor
supporting four of the dancers ! Yet he was by no means unduly excited
either by the plaudits of the crowd or by his evident success with the
fair. "Ah, believe me, it is nothing," he said quietly, rolling a fresh
cigarette as he leaned against the doorway. "Possibly, I shall have to
offer the chocolate or the wine to thees girls, or make to them a
promenade in the moonlight on the veranda. It is ever so. Unless, my
friend," he said, suddenly turning toward me in an excess of chivalrous
self-abnegation, "unless you shall yourself take my place. Behold, I gif
them to you ! I vamos! I vanish ! I make track! I skedaddle!" I think he
would have carried his extravagance to the point of summoning his four
gypsy witches of partners, and committing them to my care, if the crowd
had not at that moment parted before the remaining dancers, and left one
of the onlookers, a tall, slender girl, calmly surveying them through
gold-rimmed eyeglasses in complete critical absorption. I stared in
amazement and consternation; for I recognized in the fair stranger Miss
Urania Mannersley, the Congregational minister's niece!
Everybody knew Rainie Mannersley throughout the length and breadth of
the Encinal. She was at once the envy and the goad of the daughters of
those Southwestern and Eastern immigrants who had settled in the valley.
She was correct, she was critical, she was faultless and observant. She
was proper, yet independent; she was highly educated; she was suspected
of knowing Latin and Greek; she even spelled correctly! She could
wither the plainest field nosegay in the hands of other girls by giving
the flowers their botanical names. She never said "Ain't you ?" but
"Aren't you ?" She looked upon "Did I which ?" as an incomplete and
imperfect form of "What did I do ?" She quoted from Browning and
Tennyson, and was believed to have read them. She was from Boston. What
could she possibly be doing at a free-and-easy fandango ?
Even if these facts were not already familiar to everyone there, her
outward appearance would have attracted attention. Contrasted with the
gorgeous red, black, and yellow skirts of the dancers, her plain,
tightly fitting gown and hat, all of one delicate gray, were
sufficiently notable in themselves, even had they not seemed, like the
girl herself, a kind of quiet protest to the glaring flounces before
her. Her small, straight waist and flat back brought into greater relief
the corsetless, waistless, swaying figures of the Mexican girls, and
her long, slim, well-booted feet, peeping from the stiff, white edges of
her short skirt, made their broad, low- quartered slippers, held on by
the big toe, appear more preposterous than ever. Suddenly she seemed to
realize that she was standing there alone, but without fear or
embarrassment. She drew back a little, glancing carelessly behind her as
if missing some previous companion, and then her eyes fell upon mine.
She smiled an easy recognition; then a moment later, her glance rested
more curiously upon Enriquez, who was still by my side. I disengaged
myself and instantly joined her, particularly as I noticed that a few of
the other bystanders were beginning to stare at her with little
reserve.
"Isn't it the most extraordinary thing you ever saw ?" she said quietly.
Then, presently noticing the look of embarrassment on my face, she went
on, more by way of conversation than of explanation:
"I just left uncle making a call on a parishioner next door, and was
going home with Jocasta (a peon servant of her uncle's), when I heard
the music, and dropped in. I don't know what has become of her," she
added, glancing round the room again; "she seemed perfectly wild when
she saw that creature over there bounding about with his handkerchiefs.
You were speaking to him just now. Do tell me is he real?"
"I should think there was little doubt of that," I said with a vague laugh.
"You know what I mean," she said simply. "Is he quite sane ? Does he do that because he likes it, or is he paid for it ?"
This was too much. I pointed out somewhat hurriedly that he was a scion
of one of the oldest Castilian families, that the performance was a
national gypsy dance which he had joined in as a patriot and a patron,
and that he was my dearest friend. At the same time I was conscious that
I wished she hadn't seen his last performance.
"You don't mean to say that all that he did was in the dance ?" she said.
"I don't believe it. It was only like him." As I hesitated over this
palpable truth, she went on: "I do wish he'd do it again. Don't you
think you could make him ?"
"Perhaps he might if you asked him," I said a little maliciously.
"Of course I shouldn't do that," she returned quietly. "All the same, I
do believe he is really going to do it or something else. Do look !"
I looked, and to my horror saw that Enriquez, possibly incited by the
delicate gold eyeglasses of Miss Mannersley, had divested himself of his
coat, and was winding the four handkerchiefs, tied together,
picturesquely around his waist, preparatory to some new performance. I
tried furtively to give him a warning look, but in vain.
"Isn't he really too absurd for anything ?" said Miss Mannersley, yet
with a certain comfortable anticipation in her voice. "You know, I never
saw anything like this before. I wouldn't have believed such a creature
could have existed."
Even had I succeeded in warning him, I doubt if it would have been of
any avail. For, seizing a guitar from one of the musicians, he struck a
few chords, and suddenly began to zigzag into the center of the floor,
swaying his body languishingly from side to side in time with the music
and the pitch of a thin Spanish tenor. It was a gypsy love song.
Possibly Miss Mannersley's lingual accomplishments did not include a
knowledge of Castilian, but she could not fail to see that the gestures
and illustrative pantomime were addressed to her. Passionately assuring
her that she was the most favored daughter of the Virgin, that her eyes
were like votive tapers, and yet in the same breath accusing her of
being a "brigand" and "assassin" in her attitude toward "his heart," he
balanced with quivering timidity toward her, threw an imaginary cloak in
front of her neat boots as a carpet for her to tread on, and with a
final astonishing pirouette and a languishing twang of his guitar, sank
on one knee, and blew, with a rose, a kiss at her feet.
If I had been seriously angry with him before for his grotesque
extravagance, I could have pitied him now for the young girl's absolute
unconsciousness of anything but his utter ludicrousness. The applause of
dancers and bystanders was instantaneous and hearty; her only
contribution to it was a slight parting of her thin red lips in a
half-incredulous smile. In the silence that followed the applause, as
Enriquez walked pantingly away, I heard her saying, half to herself,
"Certainly a most extraordinary creature!" In my indignation I could not
help turning suddenly upon her and looking straight into her eyes. They
were brown, with that peculiar velvet opacity common to the pupils of
nearsighted persons, and seemed to defy internal scrutiny. She only
repeated carelessly, "Isn't he ?" and added: "Please see if you can find
Jocasta. I suppose we ought to be going now; and I dare say he won't be
doing it again. Ah! there she is. Good gracious, child! what have you
got there ?"
It was Enriquez' rose which Jocasta had picked up, and was timidly holding out toward her mistress.
"Heavens! I don't want it. Keep it yourself."
I walked with them to the door, as I did not fancy a certain glitter in
the black eyes of the Senoritas Manuela and Pepita, who were watching
her curiously. But I think she was as oblivious of this as she was of
Enriquez' particular attentions. As we reached the street I felt that I
ought to say something more.
"You know," I began casually, "that although those poor people meet here
in this public way, their gathering is really quite a homely pastoral
and a national custom; and these girls are all honest, hardworking peons
or servants enjoying themselves in quite the old idyllic fashion."
"Certainly," said the young girl, half-abstractedly. "Of course it's a
Moorish dance, originally brought over, I suppose, by those old
Andalusian immigrants two hundred years ago. It's quite Arabic in its
suggestions. I have got something like it in an old CANCIONERO I picked
up at a bookstall in Boston. But," she added, with a gasp of reminiscent
satisfaction, "that's not like him ! Oh, no! he is decidedly original.
Heavens ! yes."
I turned away in some discomfiture to join Enriquez, who was calmly
awaiting me, with a cigarette in his mouth, outside the sala. Yet he
looked so unconscious of any previous absurdity that I hesitated in what
I thought was a necessary warning. He, however, quickly precipitated
it. Glancing after the retreating figures of the two women, he said:
"Thees mees from Boston is return to her house. You do not accompany
her ? I shall. Behold me, I am there." But I linked my arm firmly in his.
Then I pointed out, first, that she was already accompanied by a
servant; secondly, that if I, who knew her, had hesitated to offer
myself as an escort, it was hardly proper for him, a perfect stranger,
to take that liberty; that Miss Mannersley was very punctilious of
etiquette, which he, as a Castilian gentleman, ought to appreciate.
"But will she not regard lofe the admiration excessif ?" he said, twirling his thin little mustache meditatively.
"No; she will not," I returned sharply; "and you ought to understand
that she is on a different level from your Manuelas and Carmens."
"Pardon, my friend," he said gravely; "thees women are ever the same.
There is a proverb in my language. Listen: 'Whether the sharp blade of
the Toledo pierce the satin or the goatskin, it shall find behind it
ever the same heart to wound.' I am that Toledo blade possibly it is
you, my friend. Wherefore, let us together pursue this girl of Boston on
the instant."
But I kept my grasp on Enriquez' arm, and succeeded in restraining his
mercurial impulses for the moment. He halted, and puffed vigorously at
his cigarette; but the next instant he started forward again. "Let us,
however, follow with discretion in the rear; we shall pass her house; we
shall gaze at it; it shall touch her heart."
Ridiculous as was this following of the young girl we had only just
parted from, I nevertheless knew that Enriquez was quite capable of
attempting it alone, and I thought it better to humor him by consenting
to walk with him in that direction; but I felt it necessary to say:
"I ought to warn you that Miss Mannersley already looks upon your
performances at the sala as something outre and peculiar, and if I were
you I shouldn't do anything to deepen that impression."
"You are saying she ees shock ?" said Enriquez, gravely.
I felt I could not conscientiously say that she was shocked, and he saw
my hesitation. "Then she have jealousy of the senoritas," he observed,
with insufferable complacency. "You observe! I have already said. It is
ever so."
I could stand it no longer. "Look here, Harry," I said, "if you must
know it, she looks upon you as an acrobat a paid performer."
"Ah!" his black eyes sparkled "the torero, the man who fights the bull, he is also an acrobat."
"Yes; but she thinks you a clown ! a GRACIOSO DE TEATRO there !"
"Then I have make her laugh ?" he said coolly.
I don't think he had; but I shrugged my shoulders.
"BUENO !" he said cheerfully. "Lofe, he begin with a laugh, he make feenish with a sigh."
I turned to look at him in the moonlight. His face presented its
habitual Spanish gravity - a gravity that was almost ironical. His small
black eyes had their characteristic irresponsible audacity the
irresponsibility of the vivacious young animal. It could not be possible
that he was really touched with the placid frigidities of Miss
Mannersley. I remembered his equally elastic gallantries with Miss
Pinkey Smith, a blonde Western belle, from which both had harmlessly
rebounded. As we walked on slowly I continued more persuasively: "Of
course this is only your nonsense; but don't you see, Miss Mannersley
thinks it all in earnest and really your nature ?" I hesitated, for it
suddenly struck me that it WAS really his nature. "And hang it
all ! you don't want her to believe you a common buffoon., or some
intoxicated muchacho."
"Intoxicated ?" repeated Enriquez, with exasperating languishment. "Yes;
that is the word that shall express itself. My friend, you have made a
shot in the center you have ring the bell every time! It is
intoxication but not of aguardiente. Look ! I have long time an ancestor
of whom is a pretty story. One day in church he have seen a young
girl a mere peasant girl, pass to the confessional. He look her in her
eye, he stagger" here Enriquez wobbled pantomimically into the
road "he fall !" he would have suited the action to the word if I had
not firmly held him up. "They have taken him home, where he have remain
without his clothes, and have dance and sing. But it was the drunkenness
of lofe. And, look you, thees village girl was a nothing, not even
pretty. The name of my ancestor was..."
"Don Quixote de La Mancha," I suggested maliciously. "I suspected as much. Come along. That will do."
"My ancestor's name," continued Enriquez, gravely, "was Antonio
Hermenegildo de Salvatierra, which is not the same. Thees Don Quixote of
whom you speak exist not at all."
"Never mind. Only, for heaven's sake, as we are nearing the house, don't make a fool of yourself again."
It was a wonderful moonlight night. The deep redwood porch of the
Mannersley parsonage, under the shadow of a great oak the largest in
the Encinal was diapered in black and silver. As the women stepped upon
the porch their shadows were silhouetted against the door. Miss
Mannersley paused for an instant, and turned to give a last look at the
beauty of the night as Jocasta entered. Her glance fell upon us as we
passed. She nodded carelessly and unaffectedly to me, but as she
recognized Enriquez she looked a little longer at him with her previous
cold and invincible curiosity. To my horror Enriquez began instantly to
affect a slight tremulousness of gait and a difficulty of breathing; but
I gripped his arm savagely, and managed to get him past the house as
the door closed finally on the young lady.
"You do not comprehend, friend Pancho," he said gravely, "but those eyes
in their glass are as the ESPEJO USTORIO, the burning mirror. They
burn, they consume me here like paper. Let us affix to ourselves thees
tree. She will, without doubt, appear at her window. We shall salute her
for good night."
"We will do nothing of the kind," I said sharply. Finding that I was
determined, he permitted me to lead him away. I was delighted to notice,
however, that he had indicated the window which I knew was the
minister's study, and that as the bedrooms were in the rear of the
house, this later incident was probably not overseen by the young lady
or the servant. But I did not part from Enriquez until I saw him safely
back to the sala, where I left him sipping chocolate, his arm
alternating around the waists of his two previous partners in a
delightful Arcadian and childlike simplicity, and an apparent utter
forgetfulness of Miss Mannersley.
The fandangos were usually held on Saturday night, and the next day,
being Sunday, 1 missed Enriquez; but as he was a devout Catholic I
remembered that he was at mass in the morning, and possibly at the
bullfight at San Antonio in the afternoon. But I was somewhat surprised
on the Monday morning following, as I was crossing the plaza, to have my
arm taken by the Rev. Mr. Mannersley in the nearest approach to
familiarity that was consistent with the reserve of this eminent divine.
I looked at him inquiringly. Although scrupulously correct in attire,
his features always had a singular resemblance to the national
caricature known as "Uncle Sam," but with the humorous expression left
out. Softly stroking his goatee with three fingers, he began
condescendingly: "You are, I think, more or less familiar with the
characteristics and customs of the Spanish as exhibited by the settlers
here." A thrill of apprehension went through me. Had he heard of
Enriquez' proceedings ? Had Miss Mannersley cruelly betrayed him to her
uncle? "I have not given that attention myself to their language and
social peculiarities," he continued, with a large wave of the hand,
"being much occupied with a study of their religious beliefs and
superstitions " it struck me that this was apt to be a common fault of
people of the Mannersley type "but I have refrained from a personal
discussion of them; on the contrary, I have held somewhat broad views on
the subject of their remarkable missionary work, and have suggested a
scheme of co-operation with them, quite independent of doctrinal
teaching, to my brethren of other Protestant Christian sects. These
views I first incorporated in a sermon last Sunday week, which I am told
has created considerable attention." He stopped and coughed slightly.
"I have not yet heard from any of the Roman clergy, but I am led to
believe that my remarks were not ungrateful to Catholics generally."
I was relieved, although still in some wonder why he should address me
on this topic. I had a vague remembrance of having heard that he had
said something on Sunday which had offended some Puritans of his flock,
but nothing more. He continued: "I have just said that I was
unacquainted with the characteristics of the Spanish-American race. I
presume, however, they have the impulsiveness of their Latin origin.
They gesticulate eh ? They express their gratitude, their joy, their
affection, their emotions generally, by spasmodic movements ? They
naturally dance sing eh ?" A horrible suspicion crossed my mind; I
could only stare helplessly at him. "I see," he said graciously;
"perhaps it is a somewhat general question. I will explain myself. A
rather singular occurrence happened to me the other night. I had
returned from visiting a parishioner, and was alone in my study
reviewing my sermon for the next day. It must have been quite late
before I concluded, for I distinctly remember my niece had returned with
her servant fully an hour before. Presently I heard the sounds of a
musical instrument in the road, with the accents of someone singing or
rehearsing some metrical composition in words that, although couched in a
language foreign to me, in expression and modulation gave me the
impression of being distinctly adulatory. For some little time, in the
greater preoccupation of my task, I paid little attention to the
performance; but its persistency at length drew me in no mere idle
curiosity to the window. From thence, standing in my dressing- gown, and
believing myself unperceived, I noticed under the large oak in the
roadside the figure of a young man who, by the imperfect light, appeared
to be of Spanish extraction. But I evidently miscalculated my own
invisibility; for he moved rapidly forward as I came to the window, and
in a series of the most extraordinary pantomimic gestures saluted me.
Beyond my experience of a few Greek plays in earlier days, I confess I
am not an adept in the understanding of gesticulation; but it struck me
that the various phases of gratitude, fervor, reverence, and exaltation
were successively portrayed. He placed his hands upon his head, his
heart, and even clasped them together in this manner." To my
consternation the reverend gentleman here imitated Enriquez' most
extravagant pantomime. "I am willing to confess," he continued, "that I
was singularly moved by them, as well as by the highly creditable and
Christian interest that evidently produced them. At last I opened the
window. Leaning out, I told him that I regretted that the lateness of
the hour prevented any further response from me than a grateful though
hurried acknowledgment of his praiseworthy emotion, but that I should be
glad to see him for a few moments in the vestry before service the next
day, or at early candlelight, before the meeting of the Bible class. I
told him that as my sole purpose had been the creation of an evangelical
brotherhood and the exclusion of merely doctrinal views, nothing could
be more gratifying to me than his spontaneous and unsolicited testimony
to my motives. He appeared for an instant to be deeply affected, and,
indeed, quite overcome with emotion, and then gracefully retired, with
some agility and a slight saltatory movement."
He paused. A sudden and overwhelming idea took possession of me, and I
looked impulsively into his face. Was it possible that for once
Enriquez' ironical extravagance had been understood, met, and vanquished
by a master hand ? But the Rev. Mr. Mannersley's self- satisfied face
betrayed no ambiguity or lurking humor. He was evidently in earnest; he
had complacently accepted for himself the abandoned Enriquez' serenade
to his niece. I felt a hysterical desire to laugh, but it was checked by
my companion's next words.
"I informed my niece of the occurrence in the morning at breakfast. She
had not heard anything of the strange performance, but she agreed with
me as to its undoubted origin in a grateful recognition of my liberal
efforts toward his coreligionists. It was she, in fact, who suggested
that your knowledge of these people might corroborate my impressions."
I was dumfounded. Had Miss Mannersley, who must have recognized
Enriquez' hand in this, concealed the fact in a desire to shield him ?
But this was so inconsistent with her utter indifference to him, except
as a grotesque study, that she would have been more likely to tell her
uncle all about his previous performance. Nor could it be that she
wished to conceal her visit to the fandango. She was far too independent
for that, and it was even possible that the reverend gentleman, in his
desire to know more of Enriquez' compatriots, would not have objected.
In my confusion I meekly added my conviction to hers, congratulated him
upon his evident success, and slipped away. But I was burning with a
desire to see Enriquez and know all. He was imaginative but not
untruthful. Unfortunately, I learned that he was just then following one
of his erratic impulses, and had gone to a rodeo at his cousin's, in
the foothills, where he was alternately exercising his horsemanship in
catching and breaking wild cattle and delighting his relatives with his
incomparable grasp of the American language and customs, and of the airs
of a young man of fashion. Then my thoughts recurred to Miss
Mannersley. Had she really been oblivious that night to Enriquez'
serenade ? I resolved to find out, if I could, without betraying
Enriquez. Indeed, it was possible, after all, that it might not have
been he.
Chance favored me. The next evening I was at a party where Miss
Mannersley, by reason of her position and quality, was a
distinguished, I had almost written a popular, guest. But, as I have
formerly stated, although the youthful fair of the Encinal were
flattered by her casual attentions, and secretly admired her superior
style and aristocratic calm, they were more or less uneasy under the
dominance of her intelligence and education, and were afraid to attempt
either confidence or familiarity. They were also singularly jealous of
her, for although the average young man was equally afraid of her
cleverness and her candor, he was not above paying a tremulous and timid
court to her for its effect upon her humbler sisters. This evening she
was surrounded by her usual satellites, including, of course, the local
notables and special guests of distinction. She had been discussing, I
think, the existence of glaciers on Mount Shasta with a spectacled
geologist, and had participated with charming frankness in a
conversation on anatomy with the local doctor and a learned professor,
when she was asked to take a seat at the piano. She played with
remarkable skill and wonderful precision, but coldly and brilliantly. As
she sat there in her subdued but perfectly fitting evening dress, her
regular profile and short but slender neck firmly set upon her high
shoulders, exhaling an atmosphere of refined puritanism and provocative
intelligence, the utter incongruity of Enriquez' extravagant attentions
if ironical, and their equal hopelessness if not, seemed to me plainer
than ever. What had this well-poised, coldly observant spinster to do
with that quaintly ironic ruffler, that romantic cynic, that rowdy Don
Quixote, that impossible Enriquez ? Presently she ceased playing. Her
slim, narrow slipper, revealing her thin ankle, remained upon the pedal;
her delicate fingers were resting idly on the keys; her head was
slightly thrown back, and her narrow eyebrows prettily knit toward the
ceiling in an effort of memory.
"Something of Chopin's," suggested the geologist, ardently.
"That exquisite sonata !" pleaded the doctor.
"Suthin' of Rubinstein. Heard him once," said a gentleman of Siskiyou. "He just made that pianner get up and howl. Play Rube."
She shook her head with parted lips and a slight touch of girlish
coquetry in her manner. Then her fingers suddenly dropped upon the keys
with a glassy tinkle; there were a few quick pizzicato chords, down went
the low pedal with a monotonous strumming, and she presently began to
hum to herself. I started as well I might for I recognized one of
Enriquez' favorite and most extravagant guitar solos. It was audacious;
it was barbaric; it was, I fear, vulgar. As I remembered it as he sang
it , it recounted the adventures of one Don Francisco, a provincial
gallant and roisterer of the most objectionable type. It had one hundred
and four verses, which Enriquez never spared me. I shuddered as in a
pleasant, quiet voice the correct Miss Mannersley warbled in musical
praise of the PELLEJO, or wineskin, and a eulogy of the dicebox came
caressingly from her thin red lips. But the company was far differently
affected: the strange, wild air and wilder accompaniment were evidently
catching; people moved toward the piano; somebody whistled the air from a
distant corner; even the faces of the geologist and doctor brightened.
"A tarantella, I presume ?" blandly suggested the doctor.
Miss Mannersley stopped, and rose carelessly from the piano. "It is a
Moorish gypsy song of the fifteenth century," she said dryly.
"It seemed sorter familiar, too," hesitated one of the young men,
timidly, "like as if don't you know ? you had without knowing it, don't
you know ?" he blushed slightly "sorter picked it up somewhere."
"I 'picked it up,' as you call it, in the collection of medieval
manuscripts of the Harvard Library, and copied it," returned Miss
Mannersley coldly as she turned away.
But I was not inclined to let her off so easily. I presently made my way
to her side. "Your uncle was complimentary enough to consult me as to
the meaning of the appearance of a certain exuberant Spanish visitor at
his house the other night." I looked into her brown eyes, but my own
slipped off her velvety pupils without retaining anything. Then she
reinforced her gaze with a pince-nez, and said carelessly:
"Oh, it's you ? How are you ? Well, could you give him any information ?"
"Only generally," I returned, still looking into her eyes. "These people
are impulsive. The Spanish blood is a mixture of gold and quicksilver."
She smiled slightly. "That reminds me of your volatile friend. He was mercurial enough, certainly. Is he still dancing ?"
"And singing sometimes," I responded pointedly. But she only added
casually, "A singular creature," without exhibiting the least
consciousness, and drifted away, leaving me none the wiser. I felt that
Enriquez alone could enlighten me. I must see him.
I did, but not in the way I expected. There was a bullfight at San
Antonio the next Saturday afternoon, the usual Sunday performance being
changed in deference to the Sabbatical habits of the Americans. An
additional attraction was offered in the shape of a bull-and-bear fight,
also a concession to American taste, which had voted the bullfight
"slow," and had averred that the bull "did not get a fair show." I am
glad that I am able to spare the reader the usual realistic horrors, for
in the Californian performances there was very little of the brutality
that distinguished this function in the mother country. The horses were
not miserable, worn-out hacks, but young and alert mustangs; and the
display of horsemanship by the picadors was not only wonderful, but
secured an almost absolute safety to horse and rider. I never saw a
horse gored; although unskillful riders were sometimes thrown in
wheeling quickly to avoid the bull's charge, they generally regained
their animals without injury.
The Plaza de Toros was reached through the decayed and tile-strewn
outskirts of an old Spanish village. It was a rudely built oval
amphitheater, with crumbling, whitewashed adobe walls, and roofed only
over portions of the gallery reserved for the provincial "notables," but
now occupied by a few shopkeepers and their wives, with a sprinkling of
American travelers and ranch men. The impalpable adobe dust of the arena
was being whirled into the air by the strong onset of the afternoon
trade winds, which happily, however, helped also to dissipate a reek of
garlic, and the acrid fumes of cheap tobacco rolled in cornhusk
cigarettes. I was leaning over the second barrier, waiting for the
meager and circus like procession to enter with the keys of the bull pen,
when my attention was attracted to a movement in the reserved gallery. A
lady and gentleman of a quality that was evidently unfamiliar to the
rest of the audience were picking their way along the rickety benches to
a front seat. I recognized the geologist with some surprise, and the
lady he was leading with still greater astonishment. For it was Miss
Mannersley, in her precise, well- fitting walking-costume a monotone of
sober color among the parti- colored audience.
However, I was perhaps less surprised than the audience, for I was not
only becoming as accustomed to the young girl's vagaries as I had been
to Enriquez' extravagance, but I was also satisfied that her uncle might
have given her permission to come, as a recognition of the Sunday
concession of the management, as well as to conciliate his supposed
Catholic friends. I watched her sitting there until the first bull had
entered, and, after a rather brief play with the picadors and
banderilleros, was dispatched. At the moment when the matador approached
the bull with his lethal weapon I was not sorry for an excuse to glance
at Miss Mannersley. Her hands were in her lap, her head slightly bent
forward over her knees. I fancied that she, too, had dropped her eyes
before the brutal situation; to my horror, I saw that she had a
drawing-book in her hand and was actually sketching it. I turned my eyes
in preference to the dying bull.
The second animal led out for this ingenious slaughter was, however,
more sullen, uncertain, and discomposing to his butchers. He accepted
the irony of a trial with gloomy, suspicious eyes, and he declined the
challenge of whirling and insulting picadors. He bristled with
banderillas like a hedgehog, but remained with his haunches backed
against the barrier, at times almost hidden in the fine dust raised by
the monotonous stroke of his sullenly pawing hoof his one dull, heavy
protest. A vague uneasiness had infected his adversaries; the picadors
held aloof, the banderilleros skirmished at a safe distance. The
audience resented only the indecision of the bull. Galling epithets were
flung at him, followed by cries of "ESPADA !" and, curving his elbow
under his short cloak, the matador, with his flashing blade in hand,
advanced and stopped. The bull remained motionless.
For at that moment a heavier gust of wind than usual swept down upon the
arena, lifted a suffocating cloud of dust, and whirled it around the
tiers of benches and the balcony, and for a moment seemed to stop the
performance. I heard an exclamation from the geologist, who had risen to
his feet. I fancied I heard even a faint cry from Miss Mannersley; but
the next moment, as the dust was slowly settling, we saw a sheet of
paper in the air, that had been caught up in this brief cyclone,
dropping, dipping from side to side on uncertain wings, until it slowly
descended in the very middle of the arena. It was a leaf from Miss
Mannersley's sketchbook, the one on which she had been sketching.
In the pause that followed it seemed to be the one object that at last
excited the bull's growing but tardy ire. He glanced at it with murky,
distended eyes; he snorted at it with vague yet troubled fury. Whether
he detected his own presentment in Miss Mannersley's sketch, or whether
he recognized it as an unknown and unfamiliar treachery in his
surroundings, I could not conjecture; for the next moment the matador,
taking advantage of the bull's concentration, with a complacent leer at
the audience, advanced toward the paper. But at that instant a young man
cleared the barrier into the arena with a single bound, shoved the
matador to one side, caught up the paper, turned toward the balcony and
Miss Mannersley with a gesture of apology, dropped gaily before the
bull, knelt down before him with an exaggerated humility, and held up
the drawing as if for his inspection. A roar of applause broke from the
audience, a cry of warning and exasperation from the attendants, as the
goaded bull suddenly charged the stranger. But he sprang to one side
with great dexterity, made a courteous gesture to the matador as if
passing the bull over to him, and still holding the paper in his hand,
re-leaped the barrier, and rejoined the audience in safety. I did not
wait to see the deadly, dominant thrust with which the matador received
the charging bull; my eyes were following the figure now bounding up the
steps to the balcony, where with an exaggerated salutation he laid the
drawing in Miss Mannersley's lap and vanished. There was no mistaking
that thin lithe form, the narrow black mustache, and gravely dancing
eyes. The audacity of conception, the extravagance of execution, the
quaint irony of the sequel, could belong to no one but Enriquez.
I hurried up to her as the six yoked mules dragged the carcass of the
bull away. She was placidly putting up her book, the unmoved focus of a
hundred eager and curious eyes. She smiled slightly as she saw me. "I
was just telling Mr. Briggs what an extraordinary creature it was, and
how you knew him. He must have had great experience to do that sort of
thing so cleverly and safely. Does he do it often ? Of course, not just
that. But does he pick up cigars and things that I see they throw to the
matador ? Does he belong to the management ? Mr. Briggs thinks the whole
thing was a feint to distract the bull," she added, with a wicked glance
at the geologist, who, I fancied, looked disturbed.
"I am afraid," I said dryly, "that his act was as unpremeditated and genuine as it was unusual."
"Why afraid ?"
It was a matter-of-fact question, but I instantly saw my mistake. What
right had I to assume that Enriquez' attentions were any more genuine
than her own easy indifference; and if I suspected that they were, was
it fair in me to give my friend away to this heartless coquette ? "You
are not very gallant," she said, with a slight laugh, as I was
hesitating, and turned away with her escort before I could frame a
reply. But at least Enriquez was now accessible, and I should gain some
information from him. I knew where to find him, unless he were still
lounging about the building, intent upon more extravagance; but I waited
until I saw Miss Mannersley and Briggs depart without further
interruption.
The hacienda of Ramon Saltillo, Enriquez' cousin, was on the outskirts
of the village. When I arrived there I found Enriquez' pinto mustang
steaming in the corral, and although I was momentarily delayed by the
servants at the gateway, I was surprised to find Enriquez himself lying
languidly on his back in a hammock in the patio. His arms were hanging
down listlessly on each side as if in the greatest prostration, yet I
could not resist the impression that the rascal had only just got into
the hammock when he heard of my arrival.
"You have arrived, friend Pancho, in time," he said, in accents of
exaggerated weakness. "I am absolutely exhaust. I am bursted, caved in,
kerflummoxed. I have behold you, my friend, at the barrier. I speak not,
I make no sign at the first, because I was on fire; I speak not at the
feenish for I am exhaust."
"I see; the bull made it lively for you."
He instantly bounded up in the hammock. "The bull ! Caramba ! Not a
thousand bulls! And thees one, look you, was a craven. I snap my fingers
over his horn; I roll my cigarette under his nose."
"Well, then what was it ?"
He instantly lay down again, pulling up the sides of the hammock.
Presently his voice came from its depths, appealing in hollow tones to
the sky. "He asks me thees friend of my soul, thees brother of my life,
thees Pancho that I lofe what it was ? He would that I should tell him
why I am game in the legs, why I shake in the hand, crack in the voice,
and am generally wipe out! And yet he, my pardner thees Francisco know
that I have seen the mees from Boston ! That I have gaze into the eye,
touch the hand, and for the instant possess the picture that hand have
drawn! It was a sublime picture, Pancho," he said, sitting up again
suddenly, "and have kill the bull before our friend Pepe's sword have
touch even the bone of hees back and make feenish of him."
"Look here, Enriquez," I said bluntly, "have you been serenading that girl ?"
He shrugged his shoulders without the least embarrassment, and said:
"Ah, yes. What would you ? It is of a necessity."
"Ah, yes. What would you ? It is of a necessity."
"Well," I retored, "then you ought to know that her uncle took it all to
himself thought you some grateful Catholic pleased with his religious
tolerance."
He did not even smile. "BUENO," he said gravely. "That make something,
too. In thees affair it is well to begin with the duenna. He is the
duenna."
"And," I went on relentlessly, "her escort told her just now that your
exploit in the bull ring was only a trick to divert the bull, suggested
by the management."
"Bah ! her escort is a geologian. Naturally, she is to him as a stone."
I would have continued, but a peon interrupted us at this moment with a
sign to Enriquez, who leaped briskly from the hammock, bidding me wait
his return from a messenger in the gateway.
Still unsatisfied of mind, I waited, and sat down in the hammock that
Enriquez had quitted. A scrap of paper was lying in its meshes, which at
first appeared to be of the kind from which Enriquez rolled his
cigarettes; but as I picked it up to throw it away, I found it was of
much firmer and stouter material.
Looking at it more closely, I was
surprised to recognize it as a piece of the tinted drawing-paper torn
off the "block" that Miss Mannersley had used. It had been deeply
creased at right angles as if it had been folded; it looked as if it
might have been the outer half of a sheet used for a note.
It might have been a trifling circumstance, but it greatly excited my
curiosity. I knew that he had returned the sketch to Miss Mannersley,
for I had seen it in her hand. Had she given him another ? And if so, why
had it been folded to the destruction of the drawing ? Or was it part of
a note which he had destroyed ? In the first impulse of discovery I
walked quickly with it toward the gateway where Enriquez had
disappeared, intending to restore it to him. He was just outside talking
with a young girl. I started, for it was Jocasta Miss Mannersley's
maid.
With this added discovery came that sense of uneasiness and indignation
with which we illogically are apt to resent the withholding of a
friend's confidence, even in matters concerning only himself. It was no
use for me to reason that it was no business of mine, that he was right
in keeping a secret that concerned another and a lady; but I was afraid
I was even more meanly resentful because the discovery quite upset my
theory of his conduct and of Miss Mannersley's attitude toward him. I
continued to walk on to the gateway, where I bade Enriquez a hurried
good-by, alleging the sudden remembrance of another engagement, but
without appearing to recognize the girl, who was moving away when, to my
further discomfiture, the rascal stopped me with an appealing wink,
threw his arms around my neck, whispered hoarsely in my ear, "Ah! you
see you comprehend but you are the mirror of discretion!" and returned
to Jocasta. But whether this meant that he had received a message from
Miss Mannersley, or that he was trying to suborn her maid to carry one,
was still uncertain. He was capable of either. During the next two or
three weeks I saw him frequently; but as I had resolved to try the
effect of ignoring Miss Mannersley in our conversation, I gathered
little further of their relations, and, to my surprise, after one or two
characteristic extravagances of allusion, Enriquez dropped the subject,
too.
Only one afternoon, as we were parting, he said carelessly:
"My friend, you are going to the casa of Mannersley tonight. I too have the honor of the invitation. But you will be my Mercury, my Leporello, you will take of me a message to thees Mees Boston, that I am crushed, desolated, prostrate, and flabbergasted that I cannot arrive, for I have of that night to sit up with the grand-aunt of my brother- in-law, who has a quinsy to the death. It is sad."
Only one afternoon, as we were parting, he said carelessly:
"My friend, you are going to the casa of Mannersley tonight. I too have the honor of the invitation. But you will be my Mercury, my Leporello, you will take of me a message to thees Mees Boston, that I am crushed, desolated, prostrate, and flabbergasted that I cannot arrive, for I have of that night to sit up with the grand-aunt of my brother- in-law, who has a quinsy to the death. It is sad."
This was the first indication I had received of Miss Mannersley's advances. I was equally surprised at Enriquez' refusal.
"Nonsense !" I said bluntly. "Nothing keeps you from going."
"My friend," returned Enriquez, with a sudden lapse into languish- ment
that seemed to make him absolutely infirm, "it is everything that shall
restrain me. I am not strong. I shall become weak of the knee and
tremble under the eye of Mees Boston. I shall precipitate myself to the
geologian by the throat. Ask me another conundrum that shall be easy."
He seemed idiotically inflexible, and did not go. But I did. I found
Miss Mannersley exquisitely dressed and looking singularly animated and
pretty. The lambent glow of her inscrutable eye as she turned toward me
might have been flattering but for my uneasiness in regard to Enriquez. I
delivered his excuses as naturally as I could. She stiffened for an
instant, and seemed an inch higher. "I am so sorry," she said at last in
a level voice. "I thought he would have been so amusing. Indeed, I had
hoped we might try an old Moorish dance together which I have found and
was practicing."
"He would have been delighted, I know. It's a great pity he didn't come
with me," I said quickly; "but," I could not help adding, with emphasis
on her words, "he is such an 'extraordinary creature,' you know."
"I see nothing extraordinary in his devotion to an aged relative,"
returned Miss Mannersley quietly as she turned away, "except that it
justifies my respect for his character."
I do not know why I did not relate this to him. Possibly I had given up
trying to understand them; perhaps I was beginning to have an idea that
he could take care of himself. But I was somewhat surprised a few days
later when, after asking me to go with him to a rodeo at his uncle's he
added composedly, "You will meet Mees Boston."
I stared, and but for his manner would have thought it part of his
extravagance. For the rodeo a yearly chase of wild cattle for the
purpose of lassoing and branding them was a rather brutal affair, and
purely a man's function; it was also a family affair a property
stock-taking of the great Spanish cattle-owners and strangers,
particularly Americans, found it difficult to gain access to its
mysteries and the fiesta that followed.
"But how did she get an invitation ?" I asked. "You did not dare to ask" I began.
"My friend," said Enriquez, with a singular deliberation, "the great and
respectable Boston herself, and her serene, venerable oncle, and other
Boston magnificos, have of a truth done me the inexpressible honor to
solicit of my degraded, papistical oncle that she shall come that she
shall of her own superior eye behold the barbaric customs of our race."
His tone and manner were so peculiar that I stepped quickly before him,
laid my hands on his shoulders, and looked down into his face.
But the actual devil which I now for the first time saw in his eyes went out of them suddenly, and he relapsed again in affected languishment in his chair. "I shall be there, friend Pancho," he said, with a preposterous gasp. "I shall nerve my arm to lasso the bull, and tumble him before her at her feet. I shall throw the 'buck-jump' mustang at the same sacred spot. I shall pluck for her the buried chicken at full speed from the ground, and present it to her. You shall see it, friend Pancho. I shall be there."
But the actual devil which I now for the first time saw in his eyes went out of them suddenly, and he relapsed again in affected languishment in his chair. "I shall be there, friend Pancho," he said, with a preposterous gasp. "I shall nerve my arm to lasso the bull, and tumble him before her at her feet. I shall throw the 'buck-jump' mustang at the same sacred spot. I shall pluck for her the buried chicken at full speed from the ground, and present it to her. You shall see it, friend Pancho. I shall be there."
He was as good as his word. When Don Pedro Amador, his uncle, installed
Miss Mannersley, with Spanish courtesy, on a raised platform in the long
valley where the rodeo took place, the gallant Enriquez selected a bull
from the frightened and galloping herd, and, cleverly isolating him
from the band, lassoed his hind legs, and threw him exactly before the
platform where Miss Mannersley was seated. It was Enriquez who caught
the unbroken mustang, sprang from his own saddle to the bare back of his
captive, and with the lasso for a bridle, halted him on rigid haunches
at Miss Mannersley's feet. It was Enriquez who, in the sports that
followed, leaned from his saddle at full speed, caught up the chicken
buried to its head in the sand, without wringing its neck, and tossed it
unharmed and fluttering toward his mistress. As for her, she wore the
same look of animation that I had seen in her face at our previous
meeting. Although she did not bring her sketchbook with her, as at the
bullfight, she did not shrink from the branding of the cattle, which
took place under her very eyes.
Yet I had never seen her and Enriquez together; they had never, to my
actual knowledge, even exchanged words. And now, although she was the
guest of his uncle, his duties seemed to keep him in the field, and
apart from her. Nor, as far as I could detect, did either apparently
make any effort to have it otherwise. The peculiar circumstance seemed
to attract no attention from anyone else. But for what I alone knew or
thought I knew of their actual relations, I should have thought them
strangers.
But I felt certain that the fiesta which took place in the broad patio
of Don Pedro's casa would bring them together. And later in the evening,
as we were all sitting on the veranda watching the dancing of the
Mexican women, whose white-flounced sayas were monotonously rising and
falling to the strains of two melancholy harps, Miss Mannersley rejoined
us from the house. She seemed to be utterly absorbed and abstracted in
the barbaric dances, and scarcely moved as she leaned over the railing
with her cheek resting on her hand. Suddenly she arose with a little
cry.
"What is it ?" asked two or three.
"Nothing only I have lost my fan." She had risen, and ,was looking abstractedly on the floor.
Half a dozen men jumped to their feet. "Let me fetch it," they said.
"No, thank you. I think I know where it is, and will go for it myself." She was moving away.
But Don Pedro interposed with Spanish gravity. Such a thing was not to
be heard of in his casa. If the senorita would not permit him, an old
man, to go for it, it must be brought by Enriquez, her cavalier of the
day.
But Enriquez was not to be found. I glanced at Miss Mannersley's
somewhat disturbed face, and begged her to let me fetch it. I thought I
saw a flush of relief come into her pale cheek as she said, in a lower
voice, "On the stone seat in the garden."
I hurried away, leaving Don Pedro still protesting. I knew the gardens,
and the stone seat at an angle of the wall, not a dozen yards from the
casa. The moon shone full upon it. There, indeed, lay the little
gray-feathered fan. But beside it, also, lay the crumpled black
gold-embroidered riding-gauntlet that Enriquez had worn at the rodeo.
I thrust it hurriedly into my pocket, and ran back. As I passed through
the gateway I asked a peon to send Enriquez to me. The man stared. Did I
not know that Don Enriquez had ridden away two minutes ago ?
When I reached the veranda, I handed the fan to Miss Mannersley without a
word. "BUENO," said Don Pedro, gravely; "it is as well. There shall be
no bones broken over the getting of it, for Enriquez, I hear, has had to
return to the Encinal this very evening."
Miss Mannersley retired early. I did not inform her of my discovery, nor
did I seek in any way to penetrate her secret. There was no doubt that
she and Enriquez had been together, perhaps not for the first time; but
what was the result of their interview ? From the young girl's demeanor
and Enriquez' hurried departure, I could only fear the worst for him.
Had he been tempted into some further extravagance and been angrily
rebuked, or had he avowed a real passion concealed under his exaggerated
mask and been deliberately rejected ? I tossed uneasily half the night,
following in my dreams my poor friend's hurrying hoofbeats, and ever
starting from my sleep at what I thought was the sound of galloping
hoofs.
I rose early, and lounged into the patio; but others were there before
me, and a small group of Don Pedro's family were excitedly discussing
something, and I fancied they turned away awkwardly and consciously as I
approached. There was an air of indefinite uneasiness everywhere. A
strange fear came over me with the chill of the early morning air. Had
anything happened to Enriquez ? I had always looked upon his extravagance
as part of his playful humor. Could it be possible that under the sting
of rejection he had made his grotesque threat of languishing effacement
real ? Surely Miss Mannersley would know or suspect something, if it
were the case.
I approached one of the Mexican women and asked if the senorita had
risen. The woman started, and looked covertly round before she replied.
Did not Don Pancho know that Miss Mannersley and her maid had not slept
in their beds that night, but had gone, none knew where ?
For an instant I felt an appalling sense of my own responsibility in
this suddenly serious situation, and hurried after the retreating family
group. But as I entered the corridor a vaquero touched me on the
shoulder. He had evidently just dismounted, and was covered with the
dust of the road. He handed me a note written in pencil on a leaf from
Miss Mannersley's sketchbook. It was in Enriquez' hand, and his
signature was followed by his most extravagant rubric.
Friend Pancho: When you read this line you shall of a possibility think I
am no more. That is where you shall slip up, my little brother ! I am
much more I am two times as much, for I have marry Miss Boston. At the
Mission Church, at five of the morning, sharp ! No cards shall be left ! I
kiss the hand of my venerable uncle-in- law. You shall say to him that
we fly to the South wilderness as the combined evangelical missionary to
the heathen ! Miss Boston herself say this. Ta-ta ! How are you now ?
Your own Enriquez.
A LONELY RIDE
As I stepped into the Slumgullion stage I saw that it was a dark
night, a lonely road, and that I was the only passenger. Let me assure
the reader that I have no ulterior design in making this assertion. A
long course of light reading has forewarned me what every experienced
intelligence must confidently look for from such a statement. The
storyteller who willfully tempts Fate by such obvious beginnings; who is
to the expectant reader in danger of being robbed or half-murdered, or
frightened by an escaped lunatic, or introduced to his ladylove for the
first time, deserves to be detected. I am relieved to say that none of
these things occurred to me. The road from Wingdam to Slumgullion knew
no other banditti than the regularly licensed hotelkeepers; lunatics had
not yet reached such depth of imbecility as to ride of their own free
will in California stages; and my Laura, amiable and long-suffering as
she always is, could not, I fear, have borne up against these depressing
circumstances long enough to have made the slightest impression on me.
I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand, gazing doubtingly on the
vehicle. Even in the darkness the red dust of Wingdam was visible on its
roof and sides, and the red slime of Slumgullion clung tenaciously to
its wheels. I opened the door; the stage creaked easily, and in the
gloomy abyss the swaying straps beckoned me, like ghostly hands, to come
in now and have my sufferings out at once.
I must not omit to mention the occurrence of a circumstance which struck
me as appalling and mysterious. A lounger on the steps of the hotel,
who I had reason to suppose was not in any way connected with the stage
company, gravely descended, and walking toward the conveyance, tried the
handle of the door, opened it, expectorated in the carriage, and
returned to the hotel with a serious demeanor. Hardly had he resumed his
position when another individual, equally disinterested, impassively
walked down the steps, proceeded to the back of the stage, lifted it,
expectorated carefully on the axle, and returned slowly and pensively to
the hotel. A third spectator wearily disengaged himself from one of the
Ionic columns of the portico and walked to the box, remained for a
moment in serious and expectorative contemplation of the boot, and then
returned to his column. There was something so weird in this baptism
that I grew quite nervous.
Perhaps I was out of spirits. A number of infinitesimal annoyances,
winding up with the resolute persistency of the clerk at the stage
office to enter my name misspelt on the waybill, had not predisposed me
to cheerfulness. The inmates of the Eureka House, from a social
viewpoint, were not attractive. There was the prevailing opinion so
common to many honest people that a serious style of deportment and
conduct toward a stranger indicates high gentility and elevated station.
Obeying this principle, all hilarity ceased on my entrance to supper,
and general remark merged into the safer and uncompromising chronicle of
several bad cases of diphtheria, then epidemic at Wingdam. When I left
the dining-room, with an odd feeling that I had been supping exclusively
on mustard and tea leaves, I stopped a moment at the parlor door. A
piano, harmoniously related to the dinner bell, tinkled responsive to a
diffident and uncertain touch. On the white wall the shadow of an old
and sharp profile was bending over several symmetrical and shadowy
curls. "I sez to Mariar, Mariar, sez I, 'Praise to the face is open
disgrace.'" I heard no more.
Dreading some susceptibility to sincere expression on the subject of female loveliness, I walked away, checking the compliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden to my lips, and have brought shame and sorrow to the household.
Dreading some susceptibility to sincere expression on the subject of female loveliness, I walked away, checking the compliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden to my lips, and have brought shame and sorrow to the household.
It was with the memory of these experiences resting heavily upon me that
I stood hesitatingly before the stage door. The driver, about to mount,
was for a moment illuminated by the open door of the hotel. He had the
wearied look which was the distinguishing expression of Wingdam.
Satisfied that I was properly waybilled and receipted for, he took no
further notice of me. I looked longingly at the box seat, but he did not
respond to the appeal. I flung my carpetbag into the chasm, dived
recklessly after it, and before I was fairly seated with a great sigh,
a creaking of unwilling springs, complaining bolts, and harshly
expostulating axle, we moved away. Rather the hotel door slipped behind,
the sound of the piano sank to rest, and the night and its shadows
moved solemnly upon us.
To say it was dark expressed but faintly the pitchy obscurity that
encompassed the vehicle. The roadside trees were scarcely
distinguishable as deeper masses of shadow; I knew them only by the
peculiar sodden odor that from time to time sluggishly flowed in at the
open window as we rolled by. We proceeded slowly; so leisurely that,
leaning from the carriage, I more than once detected the fragrant sigh
of some astonished cow, whose ruminating repose upon the highway we had
ruthlessly disturbed. But in the darkness our progress, more the
guidance of some mysterious instinct than any apparent volition of our
own, gave an indefinable charm of security to our journey that a
moment's hesitation or indecision on the part of the driver would have
destroyed.
I had indulged a hope that in the empty vehicle I might obtain that rest
so often denied me in its crowded condition. It was a weak delusion.
When I stretched out my limbs it was only to find that the ordinary
conveniences for making several people distinctly uncomfortable were
distributed throughout my individual frame. At last, resting my arms on
the straps, by dint of much gymnastic effort I became sufficiently
composed to be aware of a more refined species of torture. The springs
of the stage, rising and falling regularly, produced a rhythmical beat
which began to absorb my attention painfully. Slowly this thumping
merged into a senseless echo of the mysterious female of the hotel
parlor, and shaped itself into this awful and benumbing
axiom "Praise-to-the-face-is- open-disgrace.
Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace." Inequalities of the road only
quickened its utterance or drawled it to an exasperating length.
It was of no use to consider the statement seriously. It was of no use
to except to it indignantly. It was of no use to recall the many
instances where praise to the face had redounded to the everlasting
honor of praiser and bepraised; of no use to dwell sentimentally on
modest genius and courage lifted up and strengthened by open
commendation; of no use to except to the mysterious female, to picture
her as rearing a thin-blooded generation on selfish and mechanically
repeated axioms all this failed to counteract the monotonous repetition
of this sentence. There was nothing to do but to give in and I was
about to accept it weakly, as we too often treat other illusions of
darkness and necessity, for the time being, when I became aware of some
other annoyance that had been forcing itself upon me for the last few
moments. How quiet the driver was!
Was there any driver ? Had I any reason to suppose that he was not lying
gagged and bound on the roadside, and the highwayman with blackened face
who did the thing so quietly driving me whither ? The thing is
perfectly feasible. And what is this fancy now being jolted out of me ? A
story ? It's of no use to keep it back particularly in this abysmal
vehicle, and here it comes: I am a Marquis a French Marquis; French,
because the peerage is not so well known, and the country is better
adapted to romantic incident a Marquis, because the democratic reader
delights in the nobility. My name is something LIGNY. I am coming from
Paris to my country seat at St. Germain. It is a dark night, and I fall
asleep and tell my honest coachman, Andre, not to disturb me, and dream
of an angel. The carriage at last stops at the chateau. It is so dark
that when I alight I do not recognize the face of the footman who holds
the carriage door. But what of that ? PESTE ! I am heavy with sleep. The
same obscurity also hides the old familiar indecencies of the statues on
the terrace; but there is a door, and it opens and shuts behind me
smartly. Then I find myself in a trap, in the presence of the brigand
who has quietly gagged poor Andre and conducted the carriage thither.
There is nothing for me to do, as a gallant French Marquis, but to say,
"PARBLEU !" draw my rapier, and die valorously ! I am found a week or two
after outside a deserted cabaret near the barrier, with a hole through
my ruffled linen and my pockets stripped. No; on second thoughts, I am
rescued rescued by the angel I have been dreaming of, who is the
assumed daughter of the brigand but the real daughter of an intimate
friend.
Looking from the window again, in the vain hope of distinguishing the
driver, I found my eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness. I could
see the distant horizon, defined by India-inky woods, relieving a
lighter sky. A few stars widely spaced in this picture glimmered sadly. I
noticed again the infinite depth of patient sorrow in their serene
faces; and I hope that the vandal who first applied the flippant
"twinkle" to them may not be driven melancholy-mad by their reproachful
eyes. I noticed again the mystic charm of space that imparts a sense of
individual solitude to each integer of the densest constellation,
involving the smallest star with immeasurable loneliness. Something of
this calm and solitude crept over me, and I dozed in my gloomy cavern.
When I awoke the full moon was rising. Seen from my window, it had an
indescribably unreal and theatrical effect. It was the full moon of
NORMA that remarkable celestial phenomenon which rises so palpably to a
hushed audience and a sublime andante chorus, until the CASTA DIVA is
sung the "inconstant moon" that then and thereafter remains fixed in
the heavens as though it were a part of the solar system inaugurated by
Joshua. Again the white-robed Druids filed past me, again I saw that
improbable mistletoe cut from that impossible oak, and again cold chills
ran down my back with the first strain of the recitative. The thumping
springs essayed to beat time, and the private-box-like obscurity of the
vehicle lent a cheap enchantment to the view. But it was a vast
improvement upon my past experience, and I hugged the fond delusion.
My fears for the driver were dissipated with the rising moon. A familiar
sound had assured me of his presence in the full possession of at least
one of his most important functions. Frequent and full expectoration
convinced me that his lips were as yet not sealed by the gag of
highwaymen, and soothed my anxious ear. With this load lifted from my
mind, and assisted by the mild presence of Diana, who left, as when she
visited Endymion, much of her splendor outside my cavern I looked
around the empty vehicle. On the forward seat lay a woman's hairpin. I
picked it up with an interest that, however, soon abated. There was no
scent of the roses to cling to it still, not even of hair oil. No bend
or twist in its rigid angles betrayed any trait of its wearer's
character. I tried to think that it might have been "Mariar's." I tried
to imagine that, confining the symmetrical curls of that girl, it might
have heard the soft compliments whispered in her ears which provoked the
wrath of the aged female. But in vain. It was reticent and unswerving
in its upright fidelity, and at last slipped listlessly through my
fingers.
I had dozed repeatedly waked on the threshold of oblivion by contact
with some of the angles of the coach, and feeling that I was
unconsciously assuming, in imitation of a humble insect of my childish
recollection, that spherical shape which could best resist those
impressions, when I perceived that the moon, riding high in the heavens,
had begun to separate the formless masses of the shadowy landscape.
Trees isolated, in clumps and assemblages, changed places before my
window. The sharp outlines of the distant hills came back, as in
daylight, but little softened in the dry, cold, dewless air of a
California summer night. I was wondering how late it was, and thinking
that if the horses of the night traveled as slowly as the team before
us, Faustus might have been spared his agonizing prayer, when a sudden
spasm of activity attacked my driver. A succession of whip-snappings,
like a pack of Chinese crackers, broke from the box before me. The stage
leaped forward, and when I could pick myself from under the seat, a
long white building had in some mysterious way rolled before my window.
It must be Slumgullion ! As I descended from the stage I addressed the
driver:
"I thought you changed horses on the road ?"
"So we did. Two hours ago."
"That's odd. I didn't notice it."
"Must have been asleep, sir. Hope you had a pleasant nap. Bully place for a nice quiet snooze empty stage, sir !"
A ROMANCE OF THE LINE
As the train moved slowly out of the station, the Writer of Stories
looked up wearily from the illustrated pages of the magazines and
weeklies on his lap to the illustrated advertisements on the walls of
the station sliding past his carriage windows. It was getting to be
monotonous. For a while he had been hopefully interested in the bustle
of the departing trains, and looked up from his comfortable and early
invested position to the later comers with that sense of superiority
common to travelers; had watched the conventional leave-takings always
feebly prolonged to the uneasiness of both parties and contrasted it
with the impassive business promptitude of the railway officials; but it
was the old experience repeated. Falling back on the illustrated
advertisements again, he wondered if their perpetual recurrence at every
station would not at last bring to the tired traveler the loathing of
satiety; whether the passenger in railway carriages, continually offered
Somebody's oats, inks, washing blue, candles, and soap, apparently as a
necessary equipment for a few hours' journey, would not there and
thereafter forever ignore the use of these articles, or recoil from that
particular quality. Or, as an unbiased observer, he wondered if, on the
other hand, impressible passengers, after passing three or four
stations, had ever leaped from the train and refused to proceed further
until they were supplied with one or more of those articles. Had he ever
known any one who confided to him in a moment of expansiveness that he
had dated his use of Somebody's soap to an advertisement persistently
borne upon him through the medium of a railway carriage window ? No !
Would he not have connected that man with that other certifying
individual who always appends a name and address singularly obscure and
unconvincing, yet who, at some supreme moment, recommends Somebody's
pills to a dying friend, afflicted with a similar address, which
restore him to life and undying obscurity. Yet these pictorial and
literary appeals must have a potency independent of the wares they
advertise, or they wouldn't be there.
Perhaps he was the more sensitive to this monotony as he was just then
seeking change and novelty in order to write a new story. He was not
looking for material, his subjects were usually the same, he was
merely hoping for that relaxation and diversion which should freshen and
fit him for later concentration. Still, he had often heard of the odd
circumstances to which his craft were sometimes indebted for suggestion.
The invasion of an eccentric- looking individual probably an innocent
tradesman into a railway carriage had given the hint for "A Night with a
Lunatic;" a nervously excited and belated passenger had once
unconsciously sat for an escaped forger; the picking up of a forgotten
novel in the rack, with passages marked in pencil, had afforded the plot
of a love story; or the germ of a romance had been found in an obscure
news paragraph which, under less listless moments, would have passed
unread. On the other hand, he recalled these inconvenient and
inconsistent moments from which the so-called "inspiration" sprang, the
utter incongruity of time and place in some brilliant conception, and
wondered if sheer vacuity of mind were really so favorable.
Going back to his magazine again, he began to get mildly interested in a
story. Turning the page, however, he was confronted by a pictorial
advertising leaflet inserted between the pages, yet so artistic in
character that it might have been easily mistaken for an illustration of
the story he was reading, and perhaps was not more remote or obscure in
reference than many he had known. But the next moment he recognized
with despair that it was only a smaller copy of one he had seen on the
hoarding at the last station. He threw the leaflet aside, but the flavor
of the story was gone. The peerless detergent of the advertisement had
erased it from the tablets of his memory. He leaned back in his seat
again, and lazily watched the flying suburbs. Here were the usual
promising open spaces and patches of green, quickly succeeded again by
solid blocks of houses whose rear windows gave directly upon the line,
yet seldom showed an inquisitive face even of a wondering child. It was
a strange revelation of the depressing effects of familiarity.
Expresses might thunder by, goods trains drag their slow length along,
shunting trains pipe all day beneath their windows, but the tenants
heeded them not. Here, too, was the junction, with its labyrinthine
interlacing of tracks that dazed the tired brain; the overburdened
telegraph posts, that looked as if they really could not stand another
wire; the long lines of empty, homeless, and deserted trains in sidings
that had seen better days; the idle trains, with staring vacant windows,
which were eventually seized by a pert engine hissing, "Come along,
will you ?" and departed with a discontented grunt from every individual
carriage coupling; the racing trains, that suddenly appeared parallel
with one's carriage windows, begot false hopes of a challenge of speed,
and then, without warning, drew contemptuously and, superciliously away;
the swift eclipse of everything in a tunneled bridge; the long,
slithering passage of an "up" express, and then the flash of a station,
incoherent and unintelligible with pictorial advertisements again.
He closed his eyes to concentrate his thought, and by degrees a pleasant
languor stole over him. The train had by this time attained that rate
of speed which gave it a slight swing and roll on curves and switches
not unlike the rocking of a cradle. Once or twice he opened his eyes
sleepily upon the waltzing trees in the double planes of distance, and
again closed them. Then, in one of these slight oscillations, he felt
himself ridiculously slipping into slumber, and awoke with some
indignation. Another station was passed, in which process the pictorial
advertisements on the hoardings and the pictures in his lap seemed to
have become jumbled up, confused, and to dance before him, and then
suddenly and strangely, without warning, the train stopped short at
another station. And then he arose, and what five minutes before he
never conceived of doing gathered his papers and slipped from the
carriage to the platform. When I say "he" I mean, of course, the Writer
of Stories; yet the man who slipped out was half his age and a
different-looking person.
- - - - - - -
The change from the motion of the train for it seemed that he had been
traveling several hours to the firmer platform for a moment bewildered
him. The station looked strange, and he fancied it lacked a certain kind
of distinctness. But that quality was also noticeable in the porters
and loungers on the platform. He thought it singular, until it seemed to
him that they were not characteristic, nor in any way important or
necessary to the business he had in hand. Then, with an effort, he tried
to remember himself and his purpose, and made his way through the
station to the open road beyond. A van, bearing the inscription,
"Removals to Town and Country," stood before him and blocked his way,
but a dogcart was in waiting, and a grizzled groom, who held the reins,
touched his hat respectfully. Although still dazed by his journey and
uncertain of himself, he seemed to recognize in the man that distinctive
character which was wanting in the others. The correctness of his
surmise was revealed a few moments later, when, after he had taken his
seat beside him, and they were rattling out of the village street, the
man turned towards him and said:
"Tha'll know Sir Jarge ?"
"I do not," said the young man.
"Ay ! but theer's many as cooms here as doan't, for all they cooms.
Tha'll say it ill becooms mea as war man and boy in Sir Jarge's sarvice
for fifty year, to say owt agen him, but I'm here to do it, or they
couldn't foolfil their business. Tha wast to ax me questions about Sir
Jarge and the Grange, and I wor to answer soa as to make tha think thar
was suthing wrong wi' un. Howbut I may save tha time and tell thea
downroight that Sir Jarge forged his uncle's will, and so gotten the
Grange. That 'ee keeps his niece in mortal fear o' he. That tha'll be
put in haunted chamber wi' a boggle."
"I think," said the young man hesitatingly, "that there must be some
mistake. I do not know any Sir George, and I am not going to the
Grange."
"Eay ! Then thee aren't the 'ero sent down from London by the story writer ?"
"Not by that one," said the young man diffidently.
The old man's face changed. It was no mere figure of speech: it actually was another face that looked down upon the traveler.
"Then mayhap your honor will be bespoken at the Angel's Inn," he said,
with an entirely distinct and older dialect, "and a finer hostel for a
young gentleman of your condition ye'll not find on this side of Oxford.
A fair chamber, looking to the sun; sheets smelling of lavender from
Dame Margery's own store, and, for the matter of that, spread by the
fair hands of Maudlin, her daughter the best favored lass that ever
danced under a Maypole. Ha ! have at ye there, young sir ! Not to speak of
the October ale of old Gregory, her father ay, nor the rare Hollands,
that never paid excise duties to the king."
"I'm afraid," said the young traveler timidly, "there's over a century between us. There's really some mistake."
"What ?" said the groom, "ye are not the young spark who is to marry
Mistress Amy at the Hall, yet makes a pother and mess of it all by a
duel with Sir Roger de Cadgerly, the wicked baronet, for his over-free
discourse with our fair Maudlin this very eve ? Ye are not the traveler
whose post-chaise is now at the Falcon ? Ye are not he that was bespoken
by the story writer in London ?"
"I don't think I am," said the young man apologetically. "Indeed, as I am feeling far from well, I think I'll get out and walk."
He got down the vehicle and driver vanished in the distance. It did not
surprise him. "I must collect my thoughts," he said. He did so.
Possibly the collection was not large, for presently he said, with a
sigh of relief:
"I see it all now! My name is Paul Bunker. I am of the young branch of
an old Quaker family, rich and respected in the country, and I am on a
visit to my ancestral home. But I have lived since a child in America,
and am alien to the traditions and customs of the old country, and even
of the seat to which my fathers belong. I have brought with me from the
far West many peculiarities of speech and thought that may startle my
kinsfolk. But I certainly shall not address my uncle as 'Hoss !' nor
shall I say 'guess' oftener than is necessary."
Much brightened and refreshed by his settled identity, he had time, as
he walked briskly along, to notice the scenery, which was certainly
varied and conflicting in character, and quite inconsistent with his
preconceived notions of an English landscape. On his right, a lake of
the brightest cobalt blue stretched before a many-towered and terraced
town, which was relieved by a background of luxuriant foliage and
emerald-green mountains; on his left arose a rugged mountain, which he
was surprised to see was snow-capped, albeit a tunnel was observable
midway of its height, and a train just issuing from it. Almost
regretting that he had not continued on his journey, as he was fully
sensible that it was in some way connected with the railway he had
quitted, presently his attention was directed to the gateway of a
handsome park, whose mansion was faintly seen in the distance. Hurrying
towards him, down the avenue of limes, was a strange figure. It was that
of a man of middle age; clad in Quaker garb, yet with an extravagance
of cut and detail which seemed antiquated even for England. He had
evidently seen the young man approaching, and his face was beaming with
welcome. If Paul had doubted that it was his uncle, the first words he
spoke would have reassured him.
"Welcome to Hawthorn Hall," said the figure, grasping his hand heartily,
"but thee will excuse me if I do not tarry with thee long at present,
for I am hastening, even now, with some nourishing and sustaining food
for Giles Hayward, a farm laborer." He pointed to a package he was
carrying. "But thee will find thy cousins Jane and Dorcas Bunker taking
tea in the summer-house. Go to them ! Nay, positively, I may not linger,
but will return to thee quickly." And, to Paul's astonishment, he
trotted away on his sturdy, respectable legs, still beaming and carrying
his package in his hand.
"Well, I'll be dog-goned ! but the old man ain't going to be left, you
bet !" he ejaculated, suddenly remembering his dialect. "He'll get there,
whether school keeps or not !" Then, reflecting that no one heard him,
he added simply, "He certainly was not over civil towards the nephew he
has never seen before. And those girls whom I don't know ! How very
awkward !"
Nevertheless, he continued his way up the avenue towards the mansion.
The park was beautifully kept. Remembering the native wildness and
virgin seclusion of the Western forest, he could not help contrasting it
with the conservative gardening of this pretty woodland, every rood of
which had been patrolled by keepers and rangers, and preserved and
fostered hundreds of years before he was born, until warmed for human
occupancy. At times the avenue was crossed by grass drives, where the
original woodland had been displaced, not by the exigency of a
"clearing" for tillage, as in his own West, but for the leisurely
pleasure of the owner. Then, a few hundred yards from the house
itself, a quaint Jacobean mansion, he came to an open space where the
sylvan landscape had yielded to floral cultivation, and so fell upon a
charming summer- house, or arbor, embowered with roses. It must have
been the one of which his uncle had spoken, for there, to his wondering
admiration, sat two little maids before a rustic table, drinking tea
demurely, yes, with all the evident delight of a childish escapade from
their elders. While in the picturesque quaintness of their attire there
was still a formal suggestion of the sect to which their father
belonged, their summer frocks--differing in color, yet each of the same
subdued tint were alike in cut and fashion, and short enough to show
their dainty feet in prim slippers and silken hose that matched their
frocks. As the afternoon sun glanced through the leaves upon their pink
cheeks, tied up in quaint hats by ribbons under their chins, they made a
charming picture. At least Paul thought so as he advanced towards them,
hat in hand. They looked up at his approach, but again cast down their
eyes with demure shyness; yet he fancied that they first exchanged
glances with each other, full of mischievous intelligence.
"I am your cousin Paul," he said smilingly, "though I am afraid I am
introducing myself almost as briefly as your father just now excused
himself to me. He told me I would find you here, but he himself was
hastening on a Samaritan mission."
"With a box in his hand ?" said the girls simultaneously, exchanging glances with each other again.
"With a box containing some restorative, I think," responded Paul, a little wonderingly.
"Restorative! So that's what he calls it now, is it ?" said one of the
girls saucily. "Well, no one knows what's in the box, though he always
carries it with him. Thee never sees him without it"
"And a roll of paper," suggested the other girl.
"Yes, a roll of paper but one never knows what it is !" said the first
speaker. "It's very strange. But no matter now, Paul. Welcome to
Hawthorn Hall. I am Jane Bunker, and this is Dorcas." She stopped, and
then, looking down demurely, added, "Thee may kiss us both, cousin
Paul."
The young man did not wait for a second invitation, but gently touched his lips to their soft young cheeks.
"Thee does not speak like an American, Paul. Is thee really and truly one ?" continued Jane.
Paul remembered that he had forgotten his dialect, but it was too late now.
"I am really and truly one, and your own cousin, and I hope you will find me a very dear"
"Oh!" said Dorcas, starting up primly. "You must really allow me to
withdraw." To the young man's astonishment, she seized her parasol, and,
with a youthful affectation of dignity, glided from the summer-house
and was lost among the trees.
"Thy declaration to me was rather sudden," said Jane quietly, in answer
to his look of surprise, "and Dorcas is peculiarly sensitive and less
like the 'world's people' than I am. And it was just a little cruel,
considering that she has loved thee secretly all these years, followed
thy fortunes in America with breathless eagerness, thrilled at thy
narrow escapes, and wept at thy privations."
"But she has never seen me before !" said the astounded Paul.
"And thee had never seen me before, and yet thee has dared to propose to
me five minutes after thee arrived, and in her presence."
"But, my dear girl !" expostulated Paul.
"Stand off !" she said, rapidly opening her parasol and interposing it
between them. "Another step nearer ay, even another word of
endearment and I shall be compelled nay, forced," she added in a lower
voice, "to remove this parasol, lest it should be crushed and ruined !"
"I see," he said gloomily, "you have been reading novels; but so have I,
and the same ones ! Nevertheless, I intended only to tell you that I
hoped you would always find me a kind friend."
She shut her parasol up with a snap. "And I only intended to tell thee that my heart was given to another."
"You intended and now ?"
"Is it the 'kind friend' who asks ?"
"If it were not ?"
"Really ?"
"Yes."
"Ah !"
"Oh !"
"But thee loves another ?" she said, toying with her cup.
He attempted to toy with his, but broke it. A man lacks delicacy in this
kind of persiflage. "You mean I am loved by another," he said bluntly.
"You dare to say that !" she said, flashing, in spite of her prim demeanor.
"No, but you did just now! You said your sister loved me!"
"Did I ?" she said dreamily. "Dear ! dear ! That's the trouble of trying to
talk like Mr. Blank's delightful dialogues. One gets so mixed !"
"Yet you will be a sister to me ?" he said. "'Tis an old American joke, but 'twill serve."
There was a long silence.
"Had thee not better go to sister Dorcas ? She is playing with the cows," said Jane plaintively.
"You forget," he returned gravely, "that, on page 27 of the novel we have both read, at this point he is supposed to kiss her."
She had forgotten, but they both remembered in time. At this moment a
scream came faintly from the distance. They both started, and rose.
"It is sister Dorcas," said Jane, sitting down again and pouring out
another cup of tea. "I have always told her that one of those Swiss cows
would hook her."
Paul stared at her with a strange revulsion of feeling. "I could save
Dorcas," he muttered to himself, "in less time than it takes to
describe." He paused, however, as he reflected that this would depend
entirely upon the methods of the writer of this description. "I could
rescue her ! I have only to take the first clothes-line that I find, and
with that knowledge and skill with the lasso which I learned in the
wilds of America, I could stop the charge of the most furious ruminant. I
will !" and without another word he turned and rushed off in the
direction of the sound.
. . . . . .
He had not gone a hundred yards before he paused, a little bewildered.
To the left could still be seen the cobalt lake with the terraced
background; to the right the rugged mountains. He chose the latter.
Luckily for him a cottager's garden lay in his path, and from a line
supported by a single pole depended the homely linen of the cottager. To
tear these garments from the line was the work of a moment (although it
represented the whole week's washing), and hastily coiling the rope
dexterously in his hand, he sped onward. Already panting with exertion
and excitement, a few roods farther he was confronted with a spectacle
that left him breathless.
A woman, young, robust, yet gracefully formed was running ahead of him,
driving before her with an open parasol an animal which he instantly
recognized as one of that simple yet treacherous species most feared by
the sex known as the "Moo Cow."
For a moment he was appalled by the spectacle. But it was only for a
moment! Recalling his manhood and her weakness, he stopped, and bracing
his foot against a stone, with a graceful flourish of his lasso around
his head, threw it in the air. It uncoiled slowly, sped forward with
unerring precision, and missed! With the single cry of "Saved !" the fair
stranger sank fainting in his arms! He held her closely until the color
came back to her pale face. Then he quietly disentangled the lasso from
his legs.
"Where am I ?" she said faintly.
"In the same place," he replied, slowly but firmly. "But," he added, "you have changed !"
She had, indeed, even to her dress. It was now of a vivid brick red, and
so much longer in the skirt that it seemed to make her taller. Only her
hat remained the same.
"Yes," she said, in a low, reflective voice and a disregard of her
previous dialect, as she gazed up in his eyes with an eloquent lucidity,
"I have changed, Paul ! I feel myself changing at those words you
uttered to Jane. There are moments in a woman's life that man knows
nothing of; moments bitter and cruel, sweet and merciful, that change
her whole being; moments in which the simple girl becomes a worldly
woman; moments in which the slow procession of her years is never
noted except by another woman! Moments that change her outlook on the
world and her relations to it and her husband's relations! Moments when
the maid becomes a wife, the wife a widow, the widow a re-married
woman, by a simple, swift illumination of the fancy. Moments when,
wrought upon by a single word a look an emphasis and rising
inflection, all logical sequence is cast away, processes are
lost--inductions lead nowhere. Moments when the inharmonious becomes
harmonious, the indiscreet discreet, the inefficient efficient, and the
inevitable evitable. I mean," she corrected herself hurriedly "You know
what I mean ! If you have not felt it you have read it !"
"I have," he said thoughtfully. "We have both read it in the same novel. She is a fine writer."
"Ye-e-s." She hesitated with that slight resentment of praise of another
woman so delightful in her sex. "But you have forgotten the Moo Cow!"
and she pointed to where the distracted animal was careering across the
lawn towards the garden.
"You are right," he said, "the incident is not yet closed. Let us pursue it."
They both pursued it. Discarding the useless lasso, he had recourse to a
few well-aimed epithets. The infuriated animal swerved and made
directly towards a small fountain in the centre of the garden. In
attempting to clear it, it fell directly into the deep cup-like basin
and remained helplessly fixed, with its fore- legs projecting uneasily
beyond the rim.
"Let us leave it there," she said, "and forget it and all that has gone
before. Believe me," she added, with a faint sigh, "it is best. Our
paths diverge from this moment. I go to the summer- house, and you go to
the Hall, where my father is expecting you." He would have detained her
a moment longer, but she glided away and was gone.
Left to himself again, that slight sense of bewilderment which had
clouded his mind for the last hour began to clear away; his singular
encounter with the girls strangely enough affected him less strongly
than his brief and unsatisfactory interview with his uncle. For, after
all, he was his host, and upon him depended his stay at Hawthorn Hall.
The mysterious and slighting allusions of his cousins to the old man's eccentricities also piqued his curiosity. Why had they sneered at his description of the contents of the package he carried and what did it really contain ? He did not reflect that it was none of his business, people in his situation seldom do, and he eagerly hurried towards the Hall. But he found in his preoccupation he had taken the wrong turning in the path, and that he was now close to the wall which bounded and overlooked the highway. Here a singular spectacle presented itself. A cyclist covered with dust was seated in the middle of the road, trying to restore circulation to his bruised and injured leg by chafing it with his hands, while beside him lay his damaged bicycle. He had evidently met with an accident. In an instant Paul had climbed the wall and was at his side.
The mysterious and slighting allusions of his cousins to the old man's eccentricities also piqued his curiosity. Why had they sneered at his description of the contents of the package he carried and what did it really contain ? He did not reflect that it was none of his business, people in his situation seldom do, and he eagerly hurried towards the Hall. But he found in his preoccupation he had taken the wrong turning in the path, and that he was now close to the wall which bounded and overlooked the highway. Here a singular spectacle presented itself. A cyclist covered with dust was seated in the middle of the road, trying to restore circulation to his bruised and injured leg by chafing it with his hands, while beside him lay his damaged bicycle. He had evidently met with an accident. In an instant Paul had climbed the wall and was at his side.
"Can I offer you any assistance ?" he asked eagerly.
"Thanks no ! I've come a beastly cropper over something or other on this
road, and I'm only bruised, though the machine has suffered worse,"
replied the stranger, in a fresh, cheery voice. He was a good-looking
fellow of about Paul's own age, and the young American's heart went out
towards him.
"How did it happen ?" asked Paul.
"That's what puzzles me," said the stranger. "I was getting out of the
way of a queer old chap in the road, and I ran over something that
seemed only an old scroll of paper; but the shock was so great that I
was thrown, and I fancy I was for a few moments unconscious. Yet I
cannot see any other obstruction in the road, and there's only that bit
of paper." He pointed to the paper, a half-crushed roll of ordinary
foolscap, showing the mark of the bicycle upon it.
A strange idea came into Paul's mind. He picked up the paper and
examined it closely. Besides the mark already indicated, it showed two
sharp creases about nine inches long, and another exactly at the point
of the impact of the bicycle. Taking a folded two-foot rule from his
pocket, he carefully measured these parallel creases and made an
exhaustive geometrical calculation with his pencil on the paper. The
stranger watched him with awed and admiring interest. Rising, he again
carefully examined the road, and was finally rewarded by the discovery
of a sharp indentation in the dust, which, on measurement and comparison
with the creases in the paper and the calculations he had just made,
proved to be identical.
"There was a solid body in that paper," said Paul quietly; "a parallelogram exactly nine inches long and three wide."
"I say! you're wonderfully clever, don't you know," said the stranger, with unaffected wonder. "I see it all a brick."
Paul smiled gently and shook his head. "That is the hasty inference of
an inexperienced observer. You will observe at the point of impact of
your wheel the parallel crease is curved, as from the yielding of the
resisting substances, and not broken, as it would be by the crumbling of
a brick."
"I say, you're awfully detective, don't you know! just like that fellow--what's his name ?" said the stranger admiringly.
The words recalled Paul to himself. Why was he acting like a detective ?
and what was he seeking to discover ? Nevertheless, he felt impelled to
continue. "And that queer old chap whom you met why didn't he help
you ?"
"Because I passed him before I ran into the parallelogram, and I suppose he didn't know what happened behind him ?"
"Did he have anything in his hand ?"
"Can't say."
"And you say you were unconscious afterwards ?"
"Yes !"
"Long enough for the culprit to remove the principal evidence of his crime ?"
"Come! I say, really you are you know you are !"
"Have you any secret enemy ?"
"No."
"And you don't know Mr. Bunker, the man who owns this vast estate ?"
"Not at all. I'm from Upper Tooting."
"Good afternoon," said Paul abruptly, and turned away.
It struck him afterwards that his action might have seemed uncivil, and
even inhuman, to the bruised cyclist, who could hardly walk. But it was
getting late, and he was still far from the Hall, which, oddly enough,
seemed to be no longer visible from the road. He wandered on for some
time, half convinced that he had passed the lodge gates, yet hoping to
find some other entrance to the domain. Dusk was falling; the rounded
outlines of the park trees beyond the wall were solid masses of shadow.
The full moon, presently rising, restored them again to symmetry, and at
last he, to his relief, came upon the massive gateway. Two lions ramped
in stone on the side pillars. He thought it strange that he had not
noticed the gateway on his previous entrance, but he remembered that he
was fully preoccupied with the advancing figure of his uncle. In a few
minutes the Hall itself appeared, and here again he was surprised that
he had overlooked before its noble proportions and picturesque outline.
Its broad terraces, dazzlingly white in the moonlight; its long line of
mullioned windows, suffused with a warm red glow from within, made it
look like part of a wintry landscape--and suggested a Christmas card.
The venerable ivy that hid the ravages time had made in its walls looked
like black carving. His heart swelled with strange emotions as he gazed
at his ancestral hall. How many of his blood had lived and died there;
how many had gone forth from that great porch to distant lands ! He tried
to think of his father a little child peeping between the balustrades
of that terrace. He tried to think of it, and perhaps would have
succeeded had it not occurred to him that it was a known fact that his
uncle had bought the estate and house of an impoverished nobleman only
the year before. Yet, he could not tell why he seemed to feel higher
and nobler for that trial.
The terrace was deserted, and so quiet that as he ascended to it his
footsteps seemed to echo from the walls. When he reached the portals,
the great oaken door swung noiselessly on its hinges opened by some
unseen but waiting servitor and admitted him to a lofty hall, dark with
hangings and family portraits, but warmed by a red carpet the whole
length of its stone floor. For a moment he waited for the servant to
show him to the drawing-room or his uncle's study. But no one appeared.
Believing this to be a part of the characteristic simplicity of the
Quaker household, he boldly entered the first door, and found himself in
a brilliantly lit and perfectly empty drawing-room. The same experience
met him with the other rooms on that floor the dining-room displaying
an already set, exquisitely furnished and decorated table, with chairs
for twenty guests! He mechanically ascended the wide oaken staircase
that led to the corridor of bedrooms above a central salon. Here he
found only the same solitude. Bedroom doors yielded to his touch, only
to show the same brilliantly lit vacancy. He presently came upon one
room which seemed to give unmistakable signs of his own occupancy.
Surely there stood his own dressing-case on the table! and his own
evening clothes carefully laid out on another, as if fresh from a
valet's hands. He stepped hastily into the corridor there was no one
there; he rang the bell there was no response ! But he noticed that
there was a jug of hot water in his basin, and he began dressing
mechanically.
There was little doubt that he was in a haunted house, but this did not
particularly disturb him. Indeed, he found himself wondering if it could
be logically called a haunted house unless he himself was haunting it,
for there seemed to be no other there. Perhaps the apparitions would
come later, when he was dressed. Clearly it was not his uncle's
house--and yet, as he had never been inside his uncle's house, he
reflected that he ought not to be positive.
He finished dressing and sat down in an armchair with a kind of
thoughtful expectancy. But presently his curiosity became impatient of
the silence and mystery, and he ventured once more to explore the house.
Opening his bedroom door, he found himself again upon the deserted
corridor, but this time he could distinctly hear a buzz of voices from
the drawing-room below. Assured that he was near a solution of the
mystery, he rapidly descended the broad staircase and made his way to
the open door of the drawing-room. But although the sound of voices
increased as he advanced, when he entered the room, to his utter
astonishment, it was as empty as before.
Yet, in spite of his bewilderment and confusion, he was able to follow
one of the voices, which, in its peculiar distinctness and
half-perfunctory tone, he concluded must belong to the host of the
invisible assembly.
"Ah," said the voice, greeting some unseen visitor, "so glad you have
come. Afraid your engagements just now would keep you away." Then the
voice dropped to a lower and more confidential tone. "You must take down
Lady Dartman, but you will have Miss Morecamp a clever girl on the
other side of you. Ah, Sir George ! So good of you to come. All well at
the Priory ? So glad to hear it." (Lower and more confidentially.) "You
know Mrs. Monkston. You'll sit by her. A little cut up by her husband
losing his seat. Try to amuse her."
Emboldened by desperation, Paul turned in the direction of the voice. "I
am Paul Bunker," he said hesitatingly. "I'm afraid you'll think me
intrusive, but I was looking for my uncle, and...
"Intrusive, my dear boy! The son of my near neighbor in the country
intrusive ? Really, now, I like that ! Grace !" (the voice turned in
another direction) "here is the American nephew of our neighbor Bunker
at Widdlestone, who thinks he is 'a stranger.'"
"We all knew of your expected arrival at Widdlestone--it was so good of
you to waive ceremony and join us," said a well-bred feminine voice,
which Paul at once assumed to belong to the hostess.
"But I must find some one for your dinner partner. Mary" (here her voice was likewise turned away), "this is Mr. Bunker, the nephew of an old friend and neighbor in Upshire;" (the voice again turned to him), "you will take Miss Morecamp in. My dear" (once again averted), "I must find some one else to console poor dear Lord Billingtree with." Here the hostess's voice was drowned by fresh arrivals.
"But I must find some one for your dinner partner. Mary" (here her voice was likewise turned away), "this is Mr. Bunker, the nephew of an old friend and neighbor in Upshire;" (the voice again turned to him), "you will take Miss Morecamp in. My dear" (once again averted), "I must find some one else to console poor dear Lord Billingtree with." Here the hostess's voice was drowned by fresh arrivals.
Bewildered and confused as he was, standing in this empty desert of a
drawing-room, yet encompassed on every side by human voices, so
marvelous was the power of suggestion, he seemed to almost feel the
impact of the invisible crowd. He was trying desperately to realize his
situation when a singularly fascinating voice at his elbow unexpectedly
assisted him. It was evidently his dinner partner.
"I suppose you must be tired after your journey. When did you arrive ?"
"Only a few hours ago," said Paul.
"And I dare say you haven't slept since you arrived. One doesn't on the
passage, you know; the twenty hours pass so quickly, and the experience
is so exciting to us at least. But I suppose as an American you are
used to it."
Paul gasped. He had passively accepted the bodiless conversation,
because it was at least intelligible ! But now ! Was he going mad ?
She evidently noticed his silence. "Never mind," she continued, "you can
tell me all about it at dinner. Do you know I always think that this
sort of thing what we're doing now, this ridiculous formality of
reception, which I suppose is after all only a concession to our
English force of habit, is absurd ! We ought to pass, as it were,
directly from our houses to the dinner- table. It saves time."
"Yes, no, that is I'm afraid I don't follow you," stammered Paul.
There was a slight pout in her voice as she replied: "No matter now--we
must follow them for our host is moving off with Lady Billingtree, and
it's our turn now."
So great was the illusion that he found himself mechanically offering
his arm as he moved through the empty room towards the door. Then he
descended the staircase without another word, preceded, however, by the
sound of his host's voice. Following this as a blind man might, he
entered the dining-room, which to his discomfiture was as empty as the
salon above. Still following the host's voice, he dropped into a chair
before the empty table, wondering what variation of the Barmecide feast
was in store for him. Yet the hum of voices from the vacant chairs
around the board so strongly impressed him that he could almost believe
that he was actually at dinner.
"Are you seated ?" asked the charming voice at his side.
"Yes," a little wonderingly, as his was the only seat visibly occupied.
"I am so glad that this silly ceremony is over. By the way, where are you ?"
Paul would have liked to answer, "Lord only knows !" but he reflected
that it might not sound polite. "Where am I ?" he feebly repeated.
"Yes; where are you dining ?"
It seemed a cool question under the circumstances, but he answered promptly,
"With you."
"Of course," said the charming voice; "but where are you eating your dinner ?"
Considering that he was not eating anything, Paul thought this cooler still. But he answered briefly, "In Upshire."
"Oh! At your uncle's ?"
"No," said Paul bluntly; "in the next house."
"Why, that's Sir William's our host's and he and his family are here in London. You are joking."
"Listen !" said Paul desperately. Then in a voice unconsciously lowered
he hurriedly told her where he was how he came there the empty
house the viewless company ! To his surprise the only response was a
musical little laugh. But the next moment her voice rose higher with an
unmistakable concern in it, apparently addressing their invisible host.
"Oh, Sir William, only think how dreadful. Here's poor Mr. Bunker, alone
in an empty house, which he has mistaken for his uncle's and without
any dinner !"
"Really; dear, dear ! How provoking ! But how does he happen to be with us ? James, how is this ?"
"If you please, Sir William," said a servant's respectful voice,
"Widdlestone is in the circuit and is switched on with the others. We
heard that a gentleman's luggage had arrived at Widdlestone, and we
telegraphed for the rooms to be made ready, thinking we'd have her
ladyship's orders later."
A single gleam of intelligence flashed upon Paul. His luggage yes, had
been sent from the station to the wrong house, and he had unwittingly
followed. But these voices! whence did they come ? And where was the
actual dinner at which his host was presiding ? It clearly was not at
this empty table.
"See that he has everything he wants at once," said Sir William; "there
must be some one there." Then his voice turned in the direction of Paul
again, and he said laughingly, "Possess your soul and appetite in
patience for a moment, Mr. Bunker; you will be only a course behind us.
But we are lucky in having your company even at your own discomfort."
Still more bewildered, Paul turned to his invisible partner. "May I ask where you are dining ?"
"Certainly; at home in Curzon Street," returned the pretty voice. "It was raining so, I did not go out."
"And Lord Billington ?" faltered Paul.
"Oh, he's in Scotland at his own place."
"Then, in fact, nobody is dining here at all," said Paul desperately.
There was a slight pause, and then the voice responded, with a touch of
startled suggestion in it: "Good heavens, Mr. Bunker ! Is it possible you
don't know we're dining by telephone ?"
"By what ?"
"Telephone. Yes. We're a telephonic dinner-party. We are dining in our
own houses; but, being all friends, we're switched on to each other, and
converse exactly as we would at table. It saves a great trouble and
expense, for any one of us can give the party, and the poorest can equal
the most extravagant. People who are obliged to diet can partake of
their own slops at home, and yet mingle with the gourmets without
awkwardness or the necessity of apology. We are spared the spectacle, at
least, of those who eat and drink too much. We can switch off a bore at
once. We can retire when we are fatigued, without leaving a blank space
before the others. And all this without saying anything of the higher
spiritual and intellectual effect freed from material grossness of
appetite and show which the dinner party thus attains. But you are
surely joking! You, an American, and not know it! Why, it comes from
Boston. Haven't you read that book, 'Jumping a Century' ? It's by an
American."
A strange illumination came upon Paul. Where had he heard something like
this before ? But at the same moment his thoughts were diverted by the
material entrance of a footman, bearing a silver salver with his dinner.
It was part of his singular experience that the visible entrance of
this real, commonplace mortal the only one he had seen in the midst of
this voiceless solitude was distinctly unreal, and had all the effect
of an apparition. He distrusted it and the dishes before him. But his
lively partner's voice was now addressing an unseen occupant of the next
chair. Had she got tired of his ignorance, or was it feminine tact to
enable him to eat something ? He accepted the latter hypothesis, and
tried to eat. But he felt himself following the fascinating voice in all
the charm of its youthful and spiritual inflections. Taking advantage
of its momentary silence, he said gently:
"I confess my ignorance, and am willing to admit all you claim for this
wonderful invention. But do you think it compensates for the loss of the
individual person ? Take my own case if you will not think me personal.
I have never had the pleasure of seeing you; do you believe that I am
content with only that suggestion of your personality which the
satisfaction of hearing your voice affords me ?"
There was a pause, and then a very mischievous ring in the voice that
replied: "It certainly is a personal question, and it is another
blessing of this invention that you'll never know whether I am blushing
or not; but I forgive you, for I never before spoke to any one I had
never seen and I suppose it's confusion. But do you really think you
would know me the real one any better ? It is the real person who
thinks and speaks, not the outward semblance that we see, which very
often unfairly either attracts or repels us ? We can always show
ourselves at our best, but we must, at last, reveal our true colors
through our thoughts and speech. Isn't it better to begin with the real
thing first ?"
"I hope, at least, to have the privilege of judging by myself," said
Paul gallantly. "You will not be so cruel as not to let me see you
elsewhere, otherwise I shall feel as if I were in some dream, and will
certainly be opposed to your preference for realities."
"I am not certain if the dream would not be more interesting to you,"
said the voice laughingly. "But I think your hostess is already saying
'good-by.' You know everybody goes at once at this kind of party; the
ladies don't retire first, and the gentlemen join them afterwards. In
another moment we'll all be switched off; but Sir William wants me to
tell you that his coachman will drive you to your uncle's, unless you
prefer to try and make yourself comfortable for the night here.
Good-by !"
The voices around him seemed to grow fainter, and then utterly cease.
The lights suddenly leaped up, went out, and left him in complete
darkness. He attempted to rise, but in doing so overset the dishes
before him, which slid to the floor. A cold air seemed to blow across
his feet. The "good-by" was still ringing in his ears as he straightened
himself to find he was in his railway carriage, whose door had just
been opened for a young lady who was entering the compartment from a
wayside station. "Good-by," she repeated to the friend who was seeing
her off. The Writer of Stories hurriedly straightened himself, gathered
up the magazines and papers that had fallen from his lap, and glanced at
the station walls. The old illustrations glanced back at him ! He looked
at his watch; he had been asleep just ten minutes !