For the first time in his life Arthur lost his readiness and self-command. He glanced awkwardly at the woman before him, and felt that neither conventional courtesy nor vague sentimental recollection would be effective here.
"I am waiting for my maid," said Grace, coldly; "if, as you return to the Court-room, you will send her here, you will oblige me."
Arthur bowed confusedly.
"Your maid" —
"Yes; you know her, I think, Mr. Poinsett," continued Grace, lifting her arched brows with cold surprise. "Manuela!"
Arthur turned pale and red. He was conscious of being not only awkward but ridiculous.
"Pardon me – perhaps I am troubling you – I will go myself," said Grace, contemptuously.
"One moment, Miss Conroy," said Arthur, instinctively stepping before her as she moved as if to pass him, "one moment, I beg." He paused, and then said, with less deliberation and more impulsively than had been his habit for the last six years, "You will, perhaps, be more forgiving to your brother if you know that I, who have had the pleasure of meeting you since – you were lost to us all – I, who have not had his pre-occupation of interest in another – even I, have been as blind, as foolish, as seemingly heartless as he. You will remember this, Miss Conroy – I hope quite as much for its implied compliment to your complete disguise, and an evidence of the success of your own endeavours to obliterate your identity, as for its being an excuse for your brother's conduct, if not for my own. I did not know you."
Grace Conroy paused and raised her dark eyes to his.
"You spoke of my brother's pre-occupation with – with the woman for whom he would have sacrificed anything —me– his very life! I can – I am a woman – I can understand that! You have forgotten, Don Arturo, you have forgotten – pardon me – I am not finding fault – it is not for me to find fault – but you have forgotten – Donna Maria Sepulvida!"
She swept by him with a rustle of silk and lace, and was gone. His heart gave a sudden bound; he was about to follow her, when he was met at the door by the expanding bosom of Colonel Starbottle.
"Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, as a man of – er – er – er – honour! to congratulate you, sir! When we – er – er – parted in San Francisco I did not think that I would have the – er – er – pleasure – a rare pleasure to Colonel Starbottle, sir, in his private as well as his – er – er – public capacity, of – er – er – a PUBLIC APOLOGY. Ged, sir! I have made it! Ged, sir! when I entered that nolle pros., I said to myself, 'Star., this is an apology – an apology, sir! But you are responsible, sir, you are responsible, Star.! personally responsible!'"
"I thank you," said Arthur, abstractedly, still straining his eyes after the retreating figure of Grace Conroy, and trying to combat a sudden instinctive jealously of the man before him, "I thank you, Colonel, on behalf of my client and myself."
"Ged, sir," said Colonel Starbottle, blocking up the way, with a general expansiveness of demeanour, "Ged, sir, this is not all. You will remember that our recent interview in San Francisco was regarding another and a different issue. That, sir, I am proud to say, the developments of evidence in this trial have honourably and – er – er – as a lawyer, I may say, have legally settled. With the – er – er – identification and legal – er – er – rehabilitation of Grace Conroy, that claim of my client falls to the ground. You may state to your client, Mr. Poinsett, that – er – er – upon my own personal responsibility I abandon the claim."
Arthur Poinsett stopped and looked fixedly at the gallant Colonel. Even in his sentimental pre-occupation the professional habit triumphed.
"You withdraw Mrs. Dumphy's claim upon Mr. Dumphy?" he said, slowly.
Colonel Starbottle did not verbally reply, but that gallant warrior allowed the facial muscles on the left side of his face to relax so that one eye was partially closed.
"Yes, sir, – there is a matter of a few thousand dollars that – er – er – you understand, I am – er – er – personally responsible for."
"That will never be claimed, Colonel Starbottle," said Arthur, smiling, "and I am only echoing, I am sure, the sentiments of the man most concerned, who is approaching us – Mr. Dumphy."
CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS RETURN
Mr. Jack Hamlin was in very bad case. When Dr. Duchesne, who had been summoned from Sacramento, arrived, that eminent surgeon had instantly assumed such light-heartedness and levity toward his patient, such captiousness toward Pete, with an occasional seriousness of demeanour when he was alone, that, to those who knew him, it was equal to an unfavourable prognosis. Indeed, he evaded the direct questioning of Olly, who had lately constituted herself a wondrously light-footed, soft-handed assistant of Pete, until one day, when they were alone, he asked more seriously than was his wont if Mr. Hamlin had ever spoken of his relations, or if she knew of any of his friends who were accessible.
Olly had already turned this subject over in her womanly mind, and had thought once or twice of writing to the Blue Moselle, but on the direct questioning of the doctor, and its peculiar significance, she recalled Jack's confidences on their midnight ride, and the Spanish beauty he had outlined; and so one evening, when she was alone with her patient, and the fever was low, and Jack lay ominously patient and submissive, she began – what the doctor had only lately abandoned – probing a half-healed wound.
"I reckon you'd hev been a heap more comfortable ef this thing hed happened to ye down thar in San Antonio," said Olly.
Jack rolled his dark eyes wonderingly upon his fair persecutor.
"You know you'd hev had thet thar sweetheart o' yours – thet Mexican woman – sittin' by ye, instead o' me – and Pete," suggested the artful Olympia.
Jack nearly leaped from the bed.
"Do you reckon I'd hev rung myself in as a wandering cripple – a tramp thet hed got peppered – on a lady like her? Look yer, Olly," continued Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on his elbow, "if you've got the idea thet thet woman is one of them hospital sharps – one of them angels who waltz round a sick man with a bottle of camphor in one hand and a tract in the other – you had better disabuse your mind of it at once, Miss Conroy; take a back seat and wait for a new deal. And don't you go to talkin' of thet lady as my sweetheart – it's – it's – sacrilegious – and the meanest kind of a bluff."
As the day of the trial drew near, Mr. Hamlin had expressed but little interest in it, and had evidently only withheld his general disgust of Gabriel's weakness from consideration of his sister. Once Mr. Hamlin condescended to explain his apparent coldness.
"There's a witness coming, Olly, that'll clear your brother – more shame for him – the man ez did kill Ramirez. I'm keeping my sympathies for that chap. Don't you be alarmed. If that man don't come up to the scratch I will. So – don't you go whining round. And ef you'll take my advice, you'll keep clear o' that Court, and let them lawyers fight it out. It will be time enough for you to go when they send for me."
"But you can't move – you ain't strong enough," said Olly.
"I reckon Pete will get me there some way, if he has to pack me on his back. I ain't a heavy weight now," said Jack, looking sadly at his thin white hands; "I've reckoned on that, and even if I should pass in my checks, there's an affidavit already sworn to in Maxwell's hands."
Nevertheless, on the day of the trial, Olly, still doubtful of Gabriel, and still mindful of his capacity to develop "God-forsaken mulishness," was nervous and uneasy, until a messenger arrived from Maxwell with a note to Hamlin, carrying the tidings of the appearance of Perkins in Court, and closing with a request for Olly's presence.
"Who's Perkins?" asked Olly, as she reached for her hat in nervous excitement.
"He's no slouch," said Jack, sententiously. "Don't ask questions. It's all right with Gabriel now," he added, assuringly. "He's as good as clear. Run away, Miss Conroy. Hold up a minit! There, kiss me! Look here, Olly, say! – do you take any stock in that lost sister of yours that your fool of a brother is always gabbing about? You do? Well, you are as big a fool as he. There! There! – never mind now – she's turned up at last! Much good may it do you. One! two! – go!" and as Olly's pink ribbons flashed through the doorway, Mr. Hamlin lay down again with a twinkle in his eye.
He was alone. The house was very quiet and still; most of the guests, and the hostess and her assistant, were at the all-absorbing trial; even the faithful Pete, unconscious of any possible defection of his assistant, Olly, had taken the opportunity to steal away to hear the arguments of counsel. As the retreating footsteps of Olly echoed along the vacant corridor, he felt that he possessed the house completely.
This consciousness to a naturally active man, bored by illness and the continuous presence of attendants, however kind and devoted, was at first a relief. Mr. Hamlin experienced an instant desire to get up and dress himself, to do various things which were forbidden – but which now an overruling Providence had apparently placed within his reach. He rose with great difficulty, and a physical weakness that seemed altogether inconsistent with the excitement he was then feeling, and partially dressed himself. Then he was suddenly overtaken with great faintness and vertigo, and struggling to the open window, fell in a chair beside it. The cool breeze revived him for a moment, and he tried to rise, but found it impossible. Then the faintness and vertigo returned, and he seemed to be slipping away somewhere – not altogether unpleasantly, nor against his volition – somewhere where there was darkness and stillness and rest. And then he slipped back, almost instantly as it seemed to him, to a room full of excited and anxious people, all extravagantly, and as he thought, ridiculously concerned about himself. He tried to assure them that he was all right, and not feeling any worse for his exertion, but was unable to make them understand him. Then followed Night, replete with pain, and filled with familiar voices that spoke unintelligibly, and then Day, devoted to the monotonous repetition of the last word or phrase that the doctor, or Pete, or Olly had used, or the endless procession of Olly's pink ribbons, and the tremulousness of a window curtain, or the black, sphinx-like riddle of a pattern on the bed-quilt or the wall-paper. Then there was sleep that was turbulent and conscious, and wakefulness that was lethargic and dim, and then infinite weariness, and then lapses of utter vacuity – the occasional ominous impinging of the shadow of death.
But through this chaos there was always a dominant central figure – a figure partly a memory, and, as such, surrounded by consistent associations; partly a reality and incongruous with its surroundings – the figure of Donna Dolores! But whether this figure came back to Mr. Hamlin out of the dusky arches of the Mission Church in a cloud of incense, besprinkling him with holy water, or whether it bent over him, touching his feverish lips with cool drinks, or smoothing his pillow, a fact utterly unreal and preposterous seen against the pattern of the wall-paper, or sitting on the familiar chair by his bedside – it was always there. And when, one day, the figure stayed longer, and the interval of complete consciousness seemed more protracted, Mr. Hamlin, with one mighty effort, moved his lips, and said feebly —
"Donna Dolores!"
The figure started, leaned its beautiful face, blushing a celestial rosy red, above his own, put its finger to its perfect lips, and said in plain English —
"Hush! I am Gabriel Conroy's sister."
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH MR. HAMLIN PASSES
With his lips sealed by the positive mandate of the lovely spectre, Mr. Hamlin resigned himself again to weakness and sleep. When he awoke, Olly was sitting by his bedside; the dusky figure of Pete, spectacled and reading a good book, was dimly outlined against the window – but that was all. The vision – if vision it was – had fled.
"Olly," said Mr. Hamlin, faintly.
"Yes!" said Olly, opening her eyes in expectant sympathy.
"How long have I been dr – I mean how long has this – spell lasted?"
"Three days," said Olly.
"The – you say!" (A humane and possibly weak consideration for Mr. Hamlin in his new weakness and suffering restricts me to a mere outline of his extravagance of speech.)
"But you're better now," supplemented Olly.
Mr. Hamlin began to wonder faintly if his painful experience of the last twenty-four hours were a part of his convalsecence. He was silent for a few moments and then suddenly turned his face toward Olly.
"Didn't you say something about – about – your sister, the other day?"
"Yes – she's got back," said Olly, curtly.
"Here?"
"Here."
"Well?" said Mr. Hamlin, a little impatiently.
"Well," returned Olly, with a slight toss of her curls, "she's got back and I reckon it's about time she did."
Strange to say, Olly's evident lack of appreciation of her sister seemed to please Mr. Hamlin – possibly because it agreed with his own idea of Grace's superiority and his inability to recognise or accept her as the sister of Gabriel.
"Where has she been all this while?" asked Jack, rolling his large hollow eyes over Olly.
"Goodness knows! Says she's bin livin' in some fammerly down in the South – Spanish, I reckon; thet's whar she gits those airs and graces."
"Has she ever been here – in this room?" asked Mr. Hamlin.
"Of course she has," said Olly. "When I left you to go with Gabe to see his wife at Wingdam, she volunteered to take my place. Thet waz while you waz flighty, Mr. Hamlin. But I reckon she admired to stay here on account of seein' her bo!"
"Her what?" asked Mr. Hamlin, feeling the blood fast rushing to his colourless face.
"Her bo," repeated Olly, "thet thar Ashley, or Poinsett – or whatever he calls hisself now!"
Mr. Hamlin here looked so singular, and his hand tightened so strongly around Olly's, that she hurriedly repeated to him the story of Grace's early wanderings, and her absorbing passion for their former associate, Arthur Poinsett. The statement was, in Olly's present state of mind, not favourable to Grace. "And she just came up yer only to see Arthur agin. Thet's all. And she nearly swearin' her brother's life away – and pretendin' it was only done to save the fammerly name. Jest ez if it hed been any more comfortable fur Gabriel to have been hung in his own name. And then goin' and accusin' thet innocent ole lamb, Gabe, of conspiring with July to take her name away. Purty goin's on, I reckon. And thet man Poinsett, by her own showin' – never lettin' on to see her nor us – nor anybody. And she sassin' me for givin' my opinion of him – and excusin' him by sayin' she didn't want him to know whar she was. And she refusin' to see July at all – and pore July lyin' thar at Wingdam, sick with a new baby. Don't talk to me about her!"
"But your sister didn't run away with – with – this chap. She went away to bring you help," interrupted Jack, hastily dragging Olly back to earlier history.
"Did she? Couldn't she trust her bo to go and get help and then come back fur her? – reckonin' he cared for her at all. No, she waz thet crazy after him she couldn't trust him outer her sight – and she left the camp and Gabe and ME for him. And then the idee of her talking to Gabriel about bein' disgraced by July. Ez ef she had never done anythin' to spile her own name, and puttin' on such airs and" —
"Dry up!" shouted Mr. Hamlin, turning with sudden savageness upon his pillow. "Dry up! – don't you see you're driving me half-crazy with your infernal buzzing?" He paused, as Olly stopped in mingled mortification and alarm, and then added in milder tones, "There, that'll do. I am not feeling well to-day. Send Dr. Duchesne to me if he's here. Stop one moment – there! good-bye, go!"
Olly had risen promptly. There was always something in Mr. Hamlin's positive tones that commanded an obedience that she would have refused to any other. Thoroughly convinced of some important change in Mr. Hamlin's symptoms, she sought the doctor at once. Perhaps she brought with her some of her alarm and anxiety, for a moment later that distinguished physician entered with less deliberation than was his habit. He walked to the bedside of his patient, and would have taken his hand, but Jack slipped his tell-tale pulse under the covers, and looking fixedly at the doctor, said —
"Can I be moved from here?"
"You can, but I should hardly advise" —
"I didn't ask that. This is a lone hand I'm playin', doctor, and if I'm euchred, tain't your fault. How soon?"
"I should say," said Dr. Duchesne, with professional caution, "that if no bad symptoms supervene" (he made here a half habitual but wholly ineffectual dive for Jack's pulse), "you might go in a week."
"I must go now!"
Dr. Duchesne bent over his patient. He was a quick as well as a patiently observing man, and he saw something in Jack's face that no one else had detected. Seeing this he said, "You can go now, at a great risk – the risk of your life."
"I'll take it!" said Mr. Hamlin, promptly. "I've been playin' agin odds," he added, with a faint but audacious smile, "for the last six months, and it's no time to draw out now. Go on, tell Pete to pack up and get me ready."
"Where are you going?" asked the doctor, quietly, still gazing at his patient.
"To! – blank!" said Mr. Hamlin, impulsively. Then recognising the fact that in view of his having travelling companions, some more definite and practicable locality was necessary, he paused a moment, and said, "To the Mission of San Antonio."
"Very well," said the doctor, gravely.
Strange to say, whether from the doctor's medication, or from the stimulus of some reserved vitality hitherto unsuspected, Mr. Hamlin from that moment rallied. The preparations for his departure were quickly made, and in a few hours he was ready for the road.
"I don't want to have anybody cacklin' around me," he said, in deprecation of any leave-taking. "I leave the board, they can go on with the game."
Notwithstanding which, at the last moment, Gabriel hung awkwardly and heavily around the carriage in which the invalid was seated.
"I'd foller arter ye, Mr. Hamlin, in a buggy," he interpolated, in gentle deprecation of his unwieldy and difficult bulk, "but I'm sorter kept yer with my wife – who is powerful weak along of a pore small baby – about so long – the same not bein' a fammerly man yourself, you don't kinder get the hang of. I thought it might please ye to know that I got bail yesterday for thet Mr. Perkins – ez didn't kill that thar Ramirez – the same havin' killed hisself – ez waz fetched out on the trial, which I reckon ye didn't get to hear. I admire to see ye lookin' so well, Mr. Hamlin, and I'm glad Olly's goin' with ye. I reckon Grace would hev gone too, but she's sorter skary about strangers, hevin' bin engaged these seving years to a young man by the name o' Poinsett ez waz one o' my counsel, and hevin' lately had a row with the same – one o' them lovers' fights – which bein' a young man yourself, ye kin kindly allow for."
"Drive on!" imprecated Mr. Hamlin furiously to the driver; "what are you waiting for?" and with the whirling wheels Gabriel dropped off apologetically in a cloud of dust, and Mr. Hamlin sack back exhaustedly on the cushions.
Notwithstanding, as he increased his distance from One Horse Gulch, his spirits seemed to rise, and by the time they had reached San Antonio he had recovered his old audacity and dash of manner, and raised the highest hopes in the breast of everybody but – his doctor. Yet that gentleman, after a careful examination of his patient one night, said privately to Pete, "I think this exaltation will last about three days longer. I am going to San Francisco. At the end of that time I shall return – unless you telegraph to me before that." He parted gaily from his patient, and seriously from everybody else. Before he left he sought out Padre Felipe. "I have a patient here, in a critical condition," said the doctor; "the hotel is no place for him. Is there any family here – any house that will receive him under your advice for a week? At the end of that time he will be better, or beyond our ministration. He is not a Protestant – he is nothing. You have had experience with the heathen, Father Felipe."
Father Felipe looked at Dr. Duchesne. The doctor's well-earned professional fame had penetrated even San Antonio; the doctor's insight and intelligence were visible in his manner, and touched the Jesuit instantly. "It is a strange case, my son; a sad case," he said, thoughtfully. "I will see."
He did. The next day, under the direction of Father Felipe, Mr. Hamlin was removed to the Rancho of the Blessed Fisherman, and notwithstanding the fact that its hostess was absent, was fairly installed as its guest. When Mrs. Sepulvida returned from her visit to San Francisco, she was at first astonished, then excited, and then, I fear, gratified.
For she at once recognised in this guest of Father Felipe the mysterious stranger whom she had, some weeks ago, detected on the plains of the Blessed Trinity. And Jack, despite his illness, was still handsome, and had, moreover, the melancholy graces of invalidism, which go far with an habitually ailing sex. And so she coddled Mr. Hamlin, and gave him her sacred hammock by day over the porch, and her best bedroom at night. And then, at the close of a pleasant day, she said, archly —
"I think I have seen you before, Mr. Hamlin – at the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity. You remember – the house of Donna Dolores?"
Mr. Hamlin was too observant of the sex to be impertinently mindful of another woman than his interlocutor, and assented with easy indifference.
Donna Maria (now thoroughly convinced that Mr. Hamlin's attentions on that eventful occasion were intended for herself, and even delightfully suspicious of some pre-arranged plan in his present situation): "Poor Donna Dolores! You know we have lost her for ever."
Mr. Hamlin asked, "When?"
"That dreadful earthquake on the 8th."
Mr. Hamlin, reflecting that the appearance of Grace Conroy was on the 10th, assented again abstractly.
"Ah, yes! so sad! And yet, perhaps, for the best. You know the poor girl had a hopeless passion for her legal adviser – the famous Arthur Poinsett! Ah! you did not? Well, perhaps it was only merciful that she died before she knew how insincere that man's attentions were. You are a believer in special Providences, Mr. Hamlin?"
Mr. Hamlin (doubtfully): "You mean a run of luck?"
Donna Maria (rapidly, ignoring Mr. Hamlin's illustration): "Well, perhaps I have reason to say so. Poor Donna Dolores was my friend. Yet, would you believe there were people – you know how ridiculous is the gossip of a town like this – there are people who believed that he was paying attention to ME!"
Mrs. Sepulvida hung her head archly. There was a long pause. Then Mr. Hamlin called faintly —
"Pete!"
"Yes, Mars Jack."
"Ain't it time to take that medicine?"
When Dr. Duchesne returned he ignored all this little byplay, and even the anxious inquiries of Olly, and said to Mr. Hamlin —
"Have you any objection to my sending for Dr. Mackintosh – a devilish clever fellow?"
And Mr. Hamlin had none. And so, after a private telegram, Dr. Mackintosh arrived, and for three or four hours the two doctors talked in an apparently unintelligible language, chiefly about a person whom Mr. Hamlin was satisfied did not exist. And when Dr. Mackintosh left, Dr. Duchesne, after a very earnest conversation with him on their way to the stage office, drew a chair beside Mr. Hamlin's bed.
"Jack!"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you got everything fixed – all right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Jack!"
"Yes, sir."
"You've made Pete very happy this morning."
Jack looked up at Dr. Duchesne's critical face, and the doctor went on gravely —
"Confessing religion to him – saying you believed as he did!"
A faint laugh glimmered in the dark hollows of Jack's eyes.
"The old man," he said, explanatory, "has been preachin' mighty heavy at me ever since t'other doctor came, and I reckoned it might please him to allow that everything he said was so. You see the old man's bin right soft on me, and between us, doctor, I ain't much to give him in exchange. It's no square game!"
