Tales of the Argonauts

by Bret Harte

  A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST.

  He always thought it must have been fate. Certainly nothing could havebeen more inconsistent with his habits than to have been in the Plaza atseven o'clock of that midsummer morning. The sight of his colorlessface in Sacramento was rare at that season, and, indeed, at any season,anywhere publicly, before two o'clock in the afternoon. Looking backupon it in after-years in the light of a chanceful life, he determined,with the characteristic philosophy of his profession, that it must havebeen fate.

  Yet it is my duty, as a strict chronicler of facts, to state that Mr.Oakhurst's presence there that morning was due to a very simple cause.At exactly half-past six, the bank being then a winner to the amount oftwenty thousand dollars, he had risen from the faro-table, relinquishedhis seat to an accomplished assistant, and withdrawn quietly, withoutattracting a glance from the silent, anxious faces bowed over the table.But when he entered his luxurious sleeping-room, across the passage-way,he was a little shocked at finding the sun streaming through aninadvertently opened window. Something in the rare beauty of themorning, perhaps something in the novelty of the idea, struck him as hewas about to close the blinds; and he hesitated. Then, taking his hatfrom the table, he stepped down a private staircase into the street.

  The people who were abroad at that early hour were of a class quiteunknown to Mr. Oakhurst. There were milkmen and hucksters deliveringtheir wares, small tradespeople opening their shops, housemaids sweepingdoorsteps, and occasionally a child. These Mr. Oakhurst regarded witha certain cold curiosity, perhaps quite free from the cynical disfavorwith which he generally looked upon the more pretentious of hisrace whom he was in the habit of meeting. Indeed, I think he was notaltogether displeased with the admiring glances which these humble womenthrew after his handsome face and figure, conspicuous even in acountry of fine-looking men. While it is very probable that this wickedvagabond, in the pride of his social isolation, would have been coldlyindifferent to the advances of a fine lady, a little girl who ranadmiringly by his side in a ragged dress had the power to call a faintflush into his colorless cheek. He dismissed her at last, but notuntil she had found out--what, sooner or later, her large-hearted anddiscriminating sex inevitably did--that he was exceedingly free andopen-handed with his money, and also--what, perhaps, none other of hersex ever did--that the bold black eyes of this fine gentleman were inreality of a brownish and even tender gray.

  There was a small garden before a white cottage in a side-street,that attracted Mr. Oakhurst's attention. It was filled with roses,heliotrope, and verbena,--flowers familiar enough to him in theexpensive and more portable form of bouquets, but, as it seemed to himthen, never before so notably lovely. Perhaps it was because the dew wasyet fresh upon them; perhaps it was because they were unplucked: butMr. Oakhurst admired them--not as a possible future tribute to thefascinating and accomplished Miss Ethelinda, then performing at theVarieties, for Mr. Oakhurst's especial benefit, as she had often assuredhim; nor yet as a douceur to the inthralling Miss Montmorrissy, withwhom Mr. Oakhurst expected to sup that evening; but simply for himself,and, mayhap, for the flowers' sake. Howbeit he passed on, and so outinto the open Plaza, where, finding a bench under a cottonwood-tree, hefirst dusted the seat with his handkerchief, and then sat down.

  It was a fine morning. The air was so still and calm, that a sigh fromthe sycamores seemed like the deep-drawn breath of the just awakeningtree, and the faint rustle of its boughs as the outstretching of crampedand reviving limbs. Far away the Sierras stood out against a sky soremote as to be of no positive color,--so remote, that even the sundespaired of ever reaching it, and so expended its strength recklesslyon the whole landscape, until it fairly glittered in a white and vividcontrast. With a very rare impulse, Mr. Oakhurst took off his hat, andhalf reclined on the bench, with his face to the sky. Certain birds whohad taken a critical attitude on a spray above him, apparently began ananimated discussion regarding his possible malevolent intentions. One ortwo, emboldened by the silence, hopped on the ground at his feet, untilthe sound of wheels on the gravel-walk frightened them away.

  Looking up, he saw a man coming slowly toward him, wheeling anondescript vehicle, in which a woman was partly sitting, partlyreclining. Without knowing why, Mr. Oakhurst instantly conceived thatthe carriage was the invention and workmanship of the man, partly fromits oddity, partly from the strong, mechanical hand that grasped it, andpartly from a certain pride and visible consciousness in the mannerin which the man handled it. Then Mr. Oakhurst saw something more: theman's face was familiar. With that regal faculty of not forgettinga face that had ever given him professional audience, he instantlyclassified it under the following mental formula: "At 'Frisco, PolkaSaloon. Lost his week's wages. I reckon--seventy dollars--on red. Nevercame again." There was, however, no trace of this in the calm eyes andunmoved face that he turned upon the stranger, who, on the contrary,blushed, looked embarrassed, hesitated and then stopped with aninvoluntary motion that brought the carriage and its fair occupant faceto face with Mr. Oakhurst.

  I should hardly do justice to the position she will occupy in thisveracious chronicle by describing the lady now, if, indeed, I am able todo it at all. Certainly the popular estimate was conflicting. The lateCol. Starbottle--to whose large experience of a charming sex I havebefore been indebted for many valuable suggestions--had, I regret tosay, depreciated her fascinations. "A yellow-faced cripple, by dash!a sick woman, with mahogany eyes; one of your blanked spiritualcreatures--with no flesh on her bones." On the other hand, however, sheenjoyed later much complimentary disparagement from her own sex. MissCelestina Howard, second leader in the ballet at the Varieties, had,with great alliterative directness, in after-years, denominated heras an "aquiline asp." Mlle. Brimborion remembered that she had alwayswarned "Mr. Jack" that this woman would "empoison" him. But Mr.Oakhurst, whose impressions are perhaps the most important, only saw apale, thin, deep-eyed woman, raised above the level of her companionby the refinement of long suffering and isolation, and a certain shyvirginity of manner. There was a suggestion of physical purity in thefolds of her fresh-looking robe, and a certain picturesque tastefulnessin the details, that, without knowing why, made him think that the robewas her invention and handiwork, even as the carriage she occupied wasevidently the work of her companion. Her own hand, a trifle too thin,but well-shaped, subtle-fingered, and gentle-womanly, rested on the sideof the carriage, the counterpart of the strong mechanical grasp of hercompanion's.

  There was some obstruction to the progress of the vehicle; and Mr.Oakhurst stepped forward to assist. While the wheel was being liftedover the curbstone, it was necessary that she should hold his arm; andfor a moment her thin hand rested there, light and cold as a snowflake,and then, as it seemed to him, like a snow-flake melted away. Then therewas a pause, and then conversation, the lady joining occasionally andshyly.

  It appeared that they were man and wife; that for the past two years shehad been a great invalid, and had lost the use of her lower limbs fromrheumatism; that until lately she had been confined to her bed, untilher husband--who was a master-carpenter--had bethought himself to makeher this carriage. He took her out regularly for an airing beforegoing to work, because it was his only time, and--they attracted lessattention. They had tried many doctors, but without avail. They had beenadvised to go to the Sulphur Springs; but it was expensive. Mr. Decker,the husband, had once saved eighty dollars for that purpose, but whilein San Francisco had his pocket picked--Mr Decker was so senseless!(The intelligent reader need not be told that it is the lady who isspeaking.) They had never been able to make up the sum again, and theyhad given up the idea. It was a dreadful thing to have one's pocketpicked. Did he not think so?

  Her husband's face was crimson; but Mr. Oakhurst's countenance was quitecalm and unmoved, as he gravely agreed with her, and walked by herside until they passed the little garden that he had admired. HereMr. Oakhurst commanded a halt, and, going to the door, astounded theproprietor by a preposterously ex
travagant offer for a choice of theflowers. Presently he returned to the carriage with his arms full ofroses, heliotrope, and verbena, and cast them in the lap of the invalid.While she was bending over them with childish delight, Mr. Oakhurst tookthe opportunity of drawing her husband aside.

  "Perhaps," he said in a low voice, and a manner quite free from anypersonal annoyance,--"perhaps it's just as well that you lied to heras you did. You can say now that the pick-pocket was arrested the otherday, and you got your money back." Mr. Oakhurst quietly slipped fourtwenty-dollar gold-pieces into the broad hand of the bewildered Mr.Decker. "Say that--or any thing you like--but the truth. Promise me youwon't say that."

  The man promised. Mr. Oakhurst quietly returned to the front of thelittle carriage. The sick woman was still eagerly occupied with theflowers, and, as she raised her eyes to his, her faded cheek seemed tohave caught some color from the roses, and her eyes some of their dewyfreshness. But at that instant Mr. Oakhurst lifted his hat, and beforeshe could thank him was gone.

  I grieve to say that Mr. Decker shamelessly broke his promise. Thatnight, in the very goodness of his heart and uxorious self-abnegation,he, like all devoted husbands, not only offered himself, but his friendand benefactor, as a sacrifice on the family-altar. It is only fair,however, to add that he spoke with great fervor of the generosity of Mr.Oakhurst, and dwelt with an enthusiasm quite common with his class onthe mysterious fame and prodigal vices of the gambler.

  "And now, Elsie dear, say that you'll forgive me," said Mr. Decker,dropping on one knee beside his wife's couch. "I did it for the best. Itwas for you, dearey, that I put that money on them cards that night in'Frisco. I thought to win a heap--enough to take you away, and enoughleft to get you a new dress."

  Mrs. Decker smiled, and pressed her husband's hand. "I do forgive you,Joe dear," she said, still smiling, with eyes abstractedly fixed on theceiling; "and you ought to be whipped for deceiving me so, you bad boy!and making me make such a speech. There, say no more about it. If you'llbe very good hereafter, and will just now hand me that cluster of roses,I'll forgive you." She took the branch in her angers, lifted the rosesto her face, and presently said, behind their leaves,--

  "Joe!"

  "What is it, lovey?"

  "Do you think that this Mr.--what do you call him?--Jack Oakhurst wouldhave given that money back to you, if I hadn't made that speech?"

  "Yes."

  "If he hadn't seen me at all?"

  Mr. Decker looked up. His wife had managed in some way to cover upher whole face with the roses, except her eyes, which were dangerouslybright.

  "No! It was you, Elsie--it was all along of seeing you that made him doit."

  "A poor sick woman like me?"

  "A sweet, little, lovely, pooty Elsie--Joe's own little wifey! how couldhe help it?"

  Mrs. Decker fondly cast one arm around her husband's neck, still keepingthe roses to her face with the other. From behind them she began tomurmur gently and idiotically, "Dear, ole square Joey. Elsie's oneybooful big bear." But, really, I do not see that my duty as a chroniclerof facts compels me to continue this little lady's speech any further;and, out of respect to the unmarried reader, I stop.

  Nevertheless, the next morning Mrs. Decker betrayed some slightand apparently uncalled for irritability on reaching the Plaza, andpresently desired her husband to wheel her back home. Moreover, shewas very much astonished at meeting Mr. Oakhurst just as they werereturning, and even doubted if it were he, and questioned her husbandas to his identity with the stranger of yesterday as he approached. Hermanner to Mr. Oakhurst, also, was quite in contrast with her husband'sfrank welcome. Mr. Oakhurst instantly detected it. "Her husband hastold her all, and she dislikes me," he said to himself, with that fatalappreciation of the half-truths of a woman's motives that causes thewisest masculine critic to stumble. He lingered only long enough to takethe business address of the husband, and then lifting his hat gravely,without looking at the lady, went his way. It struck the honestmaster-carpenter as one of the charming anomalies of his wife'scharacter, that, although the meeting was evidently very muchconstrained and unpleasant, instantly afterward his wife's spirits beganto rise. "You was hard on him, a leetle hard; wasn't you, Elsie?"said Mr. Decker deprecatingly. "I'm afraid he may think I've brokemy promise."--"Ah, indeed!" said the lady indifferently. Mr. Deckerinstantly stepped round to the front of the vehicle. "You look like anA 1 first-class lady riding down Broadway in her own carriage, Elsie,"said he. "I never seed you lookin' so peart and sassy before."

  A few days later, the proprietor of the San Isabel Sulphur Springsreceived the following note in Mr. Oakhurst's well-known, dainty hand:--

  "DEAR STEVE,--I've been thinking over your proposition to buy Nichols'squarter-interest, and have concluded to go in. But I don't see how thething will pay until you have more accommodation down there, and for thebest class,--I mean MY customers. What we want is an extension to themain building, and two or three cottages put up. I send down a builderto take hold of the job at once. He takes his sick wife with him; andyou are to look after them as you would for one of us.

  "I may run down there myself after the races, just to look after things;but I sha'n't set up any game this season.

  "Yours always,

  "JOHN OAKHURST."

  It was only the last sentence of this letter that provoked criticism."I can understand," said Mr. Hamlin, a professional brother, to whom Mr.Oakhurst's letter was shown,--"I can understand why Jack goes in heavyand builds; for it's a sure spec, and is bound to be a mighty soft thingin time, if he comes here regularly. But why in blank he don't set up abank this season, and take the chance of getting some of the money backthat he puts into circulation in building, is what gets me. I wondernow," he mused deeply, "what IS his little game."

  The season had been a prosperous one to Mr Oakhurst, and proportionallydisastrous to several members of the legislature, judges, colonels,and others who had enjoyed but briefly the pleasure of Mr. Oakhurst'smidnight society. And yet Sacramento had become very dull to him. He hadlately formed a habit of early morning walks, so unusual and startlingto his friends, both male and female, as to occasion the intensestcuriosity. Two or three of the latter set spies upon his track; but theinquisition resulted only in the discovery that Mr. Oakhurst walked tothe Plaza, sat down upon one particular bench for a few moments, andthen returned without seeing anybody; and the theory that there was awoman in the case was abandoned. A few superstitious gentlemen of hisown profession believed that he did it for "luck." Some others, morepractical, declared that he went out to "study points."

  After the races at Marysville, Mr. Oakhurst went to San Francisco; fromthat place he returned to Marysville, but a few days after was seen atSan Jose, Santa Cruz, and Oakland. Those who met him declared that hismanner was restless and feverish, and quite unlike his ordinary calmnessand phlegm. Col. Starbottle pointed out the fact, that at San Francisco,at the club, Jack had declined to deal. "Hand shaky, sir; depend uponit. Don't stimulate enough--blank him!"

  From San Jose he started to go to Oregon by land with a rather expensiveoutfit of horses and camp equipage; but, on reaching Stockton, hesuddenly diverged, and four hours later found him with a single horseentering the canyon of the San Isabel Warm Sulphur Springs.

  It was a pretty triangular valley lying at the foot of three slopingmountains, dark with pines, and fantastic with madrono and manzanita.Nestling against the mountain-side, the straggling buildings and longpiazza of the hotel glittered through the leaves, and here and thereshone a white toy-like cottage. Mr. Oakhurst was not an admirer ofNature; but he felt something of the same novel satisfaction in theview, that he experienced in his first morning walk in Sacramento. Andnow carriages began to pass him on the road filled with gayly-dressedwomen; and the cold California outlines of the landscape began to takeupon themselves somewhat of a human warmth and color. And then the longhotel piazza came in view, efflorescent with the full-toiletted fair.Mr. Oakhurst, a good rider after the California fash
ion, did not checkhis speed as he approached his destination, but charged the hotel at agallop, threw his horse on his haunches within a foot of the piazza, andthen quietly emerged from the cloud of dust that veiled his dismounting.

  Whatever feverish excitement might have raged within, all his habitualcalm returned as he stepped upon the piazza. With the instinct oflong habit, he turned and faced the battery of eyes with the same coldindifference with which he had for years encountered the half-hiddensneers of men and the half-frightened admiration of women. Only oneperson stepped forward to welcome him. Oddly enough, it was DickHamilton, perhaps the only one present, who by birth, education, andposition, might have satisfied the most fastidious social critic.Happily for Mr. Oakhurst's reputation, he was also a very rich bankerand social leader. "Do you know who that is you spoke to?" askedyoung Parker with an alarmed expression. "Yes," replied Hamilton withcharacteristic effrontery. "The man you lost a thousand dollars to lastweek. I only know him SOCIALLY." "But isn't he a gambler?" queried theyoungest Miss Smith. "He is," replied Hamilton; "but I wish, my dearyoung lady, that we all played as open and honest a game as our friendyonder, and were as willing as he is to abide by its fortunes."

  But Mr. Oakhurst was happily out of hearing of this colloquy, and waseven then lounging listlessly yet watchfully along the upper hall.Suddenly he heard a light footstep behind him, and then his name calledin a familiar voice that drew the blood quickly to his heart. He turned,and she stood before him.

  But how transformed! If I have hesitated to describe the hollow-eyedcripple, the quaintly-dressed artisan's wife, a few pages ago, whatshall I do with this graceful, shapely, elegantly-attired gentlewomaninto whom she has been merged within these two months? In good faith shewas very pretty. You and I, my dear madam, would have been quick tosee that those charming dimples were misplaced for true beauty, and toofixed in their quality for honest mirthfulness; that the delicate linesaround these aquiline nostrils were cruel and selfish; that the sweetvirginal surprise of these lovely eyes were as apt to be opened onher plate as upon the gallant speeches of her dinner partner; that hersympathetic color came and went more with her own spirits than yours.But you and I are not in love with her, dear madam, and Mr. Oakhurstis. And, even in the folds of her Parisian gown, I am afraid this poorfellow saw the same subtle strokes of purity that he had seen in herhomespun robe. And then there was the delightful revelation that shecould walk, and that she had dear little feet of her own in the tiniestslippers of her French shoemaker, with such preposterous blue bows, andChappell's own stamp--Rue de something or other, Paris--on the narrowsole.

  He ran toward her with a heightened color and outstretched hands. Butshe whipped her own behind her, glanced rapidly up and down the longhall, and stood looking at him with a half-audacious, half-mischievousadmiration, in utter contrast to her old reserve.

  "I've a great mind not to shake hands with you at all. You passed mejust now on the piazza without speaking; and I ran after you, as Isuppose many another poor woman has done."

  Mr. Oakhurst stammered that she was so changed.

  "The more reason why you should know me. Who changed me? You. You havere-created me. You found a helpless, crippled, sick, poverty-strickenwoman, with one dress to her back, and that her own make, and you gaveher life, health, strength, and fortune. You did; and you know it, sir.How do you like your work?" She caught the side-seams of her gown ineither hand, and dropped him a playful courtesy. Then, with a sudden,relenting gesture, she gave him both her hands.

  Outrageous as this speech was, and unfeminine as I trust every fairreader will deem it, I fear it pleased Mr. Oakhurst. Not but that he wasaccustomed to a certain frank female admiration; but then it was of thecoulisse, and not of the cloister, with which he always persisted inassociating Mrs. Decker. To be addressed in this way by an invalidPuritan, a sick saint with the austerity of suffering still clothingher, a woman who had a Bible on the dressing-table, who went to churchthree times a day, and was devoted to her husband, completely bowled himover. He still held her hands as she went on,--

  "Why didn't you come before? What were you doing in Marysville, in SanJose, in Oakland? You see I have followed you. I saw you as you camedown the canyon, and knew you at once. I saw your letter to Joseph,and knew you were coming. Why didn't you write to me? You will sometime!--Good-evening, Mr. Hamilton."

  She had withdrawn her hands, but not until Hamilton, ascending thestaircase, was nearly abreast of them. He raised his hat to her withwell-bred composure, nodded familiarly to Oakhurst, and passed on. Whenhe had gone, Mrs. Decker lifted her eyes to Mr. Oakhurst. "Some day Ishall ask a great favor of you."

  Mr. Oakhurst begged that it should be now.

  "No, not until you know me better. Then, some day, I shall want youto--kill that man!"

  She laughed such a pleasant little ringing laugh, such a display ofdimples,--albeit a little fixed in the corners of her mouth,--such aninnocent light in her brown eyes, and such a lovely color in her cheeks,that Mr. Oakhurst (who seldom laughed) was fain to laugh too. It was asif a lamb had proposed to a fox a foray into a neighboring sheepfold.

  A few evenings after this, Mrs. Decker arose from a charmed circle ofher admirers on the hotel piazza, excused herself for a few moments,laughingly declined an escort, and ran over to her little cottage--oneof her husband's creation--across the road. Perhaps from the suddenand unwonted exercise in her still convalescent state, she breathedhurriedly and feverishly as she entered her boudoir, and once or twiceplaced her hand upon her breast. She was startled on turning up thelight to find her husband lying on the sofa.

  "You look hot and excited, Elsie love," said Mr. Decker. "You ain't tookworse, are you?"

  Mrs Decker's face had paled, but now flushed again. "No," she said;"only a little pain here," as she again placed her hand upon hercorsage.

  "Can I do any thing for you?" said Mr. Decker, rising with affectionateconcern.

  "Run over to the hotel and get me some brandy, quick!"

  Mr. Decker ran. Mrs Decker closed and bolted the door, and then, puttingher hand to her bosom, drew out the pain. It was folded foursquare, andwas, I grieve to say, in Mr. Oakhurst's handwriting.

  She devoured it with burning eyes and cheeks until there came a stepupon the porch; then she hurriedly replaced it in her bosom, andunbolted the door. Her husband entered. She raised the spirits to herlips, and declared herself better.

  "Are you going over there again to-night?" asked Mr. Deckersubmissively.

  "No," said Mrs. Decker, with her eyes fixed dreamily on the floor.

  "I wouldn't if I was you," said Mr. Decker with a sigh of relief. Aftera pause, he took a seat on the sofa, and, drawing his wife to his side,said, "Do you know what I was thinking of when you came in, Elsie?"Mrs. Decker ran her fingers through his stiff black hair, and couldn'timagine.

  "I was thinking of old times, Elsie: I was thinking of the days whenI built that kerridge for you, Elsie,--when I used to take you out toride, and was both hoss and driver. We was poor then, and you was sick,Elsie; but we was happy. We've got money now, and a house; and you'requite another woman. I may say, dear, that you're a NEW woman. Andthat's where the trouble comes in. I could build you a kerridge, Elsie;I could build you a house, Elsie--but there I stopped. I couldn't buildup YOU. You're strong and pretty, Elsie, and fresh and new. But somehow,Elsie, you ain't no work of mine!"

  He paused. With one hand laid gently on his forehead, and the otherpressed upon her bosom, as if to feel certain of the presence of herpain, she said sweetly and soothingly,--

  "But it was your work, dear."

  Mr. Decker shook his head sorrowfully. "No, Elsie, not mine. I had thechance to do it once, and I let it go. It's done now--but not by me."

  Mrs. Decker raised her surprised, innocent eyes to his. He kissed hertenderly, and then went on in a more cheerful voice,--

  "That ain't all I was thinking of, Elsie. I was thinking that maybe yougive too much of your company to that Mr. Hamilton. Not t
hat there's anywrong in it, to you or him; but it might make people talk. You're theonly one here, Elsie," said the master-carpenter, looking fondly at hiswife, "who isn't talked about, whose work ain't inspected or condemned."

  Mrs. Decker was glad he had spoken about it. She had thought so too. Butshe could not well be uncivil to Mr. Hamilton, who was a fine gentleman,without making a powerful enemy. "And he's always treated me as if I wasa born lady in his own circle," added the little woman, with a certainpride that made her husband fondly smile. "But I have thought of a plan.He will not stay here if I should go away. If, for instance, I wentto San Francisco to visit ma for a few days, he would be gone before Ishould return."

  Mr. Decker was delighted. "By all means," he said, "go to-morrow. JackOakhurst is going down; and I'll put you in his charge."

  Mrs. Decker did not think it was prudent. "Mr. Oakhurst is our friend,Joseph; but you know his reputation." In fact, she did not know thatshe ought to go now, knowing that he was going the same day; but, witha kiss, Mr. Decker overcame her scruples. She yielded gracefully. Fewwomen, in fact, knew how to give up a point as charmingly as she.

  She staid a week in San Francisco. When she returned, she was a triflethinner and paler than she had been. This she explained as the result ofperhaps too active exercise and excitement. "I was out of doors nearlyall the time, as ma will tell you," she said to her husband, "and alwaysalone. I am getting quite independent now," she added gayly. "I don'twant any escort. I believe, Joey dear, I could get along even withoutyou, I'm so brave!"

  But her visit, apparently, had not been productive of her impellingdesign. Mr. Hamilton had not gone, but had remained, and called uponthem that very evening. "I've thought of a plan, Joey dear," said Mrs.Decker, when he had departed. "Poor Mr. Oakhurst has a miserable room atthe hotel. Suppose you ask him, when he returns from San Francisco,to stop with us. He can have our spare-room. I don't think," she addedarchly, "that Mr. Hamilton will call often." Her husband laughed,intimated that she was a little coquette, pinched her cheek,and complied. "The queer thing about a woman," he said afterwardconfidentially to Mr. Oakhurst, "is, that, without having any planof her own, she'll take anybody's, and build a house on it entirelydifferent to suit herself. And dern my skin if you'll be able to saywhether or not you didn't give the scale and measurements yourself!That's what gets me!"

  The next week Mr. Oakhurst was installed in the Deckers' cottage. Thebusiness relations of her husband and himself were known to all, and herown reputation was above suspicion. Indeed, few women were more popular.She was domestic, she was prudent, she was pious. In a country of greatfeminine freedom and latitude, she never rode or walked with anybodybut her husband. In an epoch of slang and ambiguous expression, she wasalways precise and formal in her speech. In the midst of a fashion ofostentatious decoration, she never wore a diamond, nor a singlevaluable jewel. She never permitted an indecorum in public. She nevercountenanced the familiarities of California society. She declaimedagainst the prevailing tone of infidelity and scepticism in religion.Few people who were present will ever forget the dignified yet statelymanner with which she rebuked Mr. Hamilton in the public parlor forentering upon the discussion of a work on materialism, lately published;and some among them, also, will not forget the expression of amusedsurprise on Mr. Hamilton's face, that gradually changed to sardonicgravity, as he courteously waived his point; certainly not Mr. Oakhurst,who, from that moment, began to be uneasily impatient of his friend,and even--if such a term could be applied to any moral quality in Mr.Oakhurst--to fear him.

  For during this time Mr. Oakhurst had begun to show symptoms of a changein his usual habits. He was seldom, if ever, seen in his old haunts,in a bar-room, or with his old associates. Pink and white notes, indistracted handwriting, accumulated on the dressing-table in his roomsat Sacramento. It was given out in San Francisco that he had someorganic disease of the heart, for which his physician had prescribedperfect rest. He read more; he took long walks; he sold his fast horses;he went to church.

  I have a very vivid recollection of his first appearance there. He didnot accompany the Deckers, nor did he go into their pew, but came in asthe service commenced, and took a seat quietly in one of the back-pews.By some mysterious instinct, his presence became presently known to thecongregation, some of whom so far forgot themselves, in their curiosity,as to face around, and apparently address their responses to him. Beforethe service was over, it was pretty well understood that "miserablesinners" meant Mr. Oakhurst. Nor did this mysterious influence failto affect the officiating clergyman, who introduced an allusion toMr. Oakhurst's calling and habits in a sermon on the architecture ofSolomon's temple, and in a manner so pointed, and yet labored, as tocause the youngest of us to flame with indignation. Happily, however,it was lost upon Jack: I do not think he even heard it. His handsome,colorless face, albeit a trifle worn and thoughtful, was inscrutable.Only once, during the singing of a hymn, at a certain note in thecontralto's voice, there crept into his dark eyes a look of wistfultenderness, so yearning and yet so hopeless, that those who werewatching him felt their own glisten. Yet I retain a very vividremembrance of his standing up to receive the benediction, with thesuggestion, in his manner and tightly-buttoned coat, of taking the fireof his adversary at ten paces. After church, he disappeared as quietlyas he had entered, and fortunately escaped hearing the comments on hisrash act. His appearance was generally considered as an impertinence,attributable only to some wanton fancy, or possibly a bet. One or twothought that the sexton was exceedingly remiss in not turning him outafter discovering who he was; and a prominent pew-holder remarked,that if he couldn't take his wife and daughters to that church, withoutexposing them to such an influence, he would try to find some churchwhere he could. Another traced Mr. Oakhurst's presence to certain BroadChurch radical tendencies, which he regretted to say he had lately notedin their pastor. Deacon Sawyer, whose delicately-organized, sickly wifehad already borne him eleven children, and died in an ambitious attemptto complete the dozen, avowed that the presence of a person of Mr.Oakhurst's various and indiscriminate gallantries was an insult to thememory of the deceased, that, as a man, he could not brook.

  It was about this time that Mr. Oakhurst, contrasting himself with aconventional world in which he had hitherto rarely mingled, became awarethat there was something in his face, figure, and carriage quite unlikeother men,--something, that, if it did not betray his former career, atleast showed an individuality and originality that was suspicious. Inthis belief, he shaved off his long, silken mustache, and religiouslybrushed out his clustering curls every morning. He even went so far asto affect a negligence of dress, and hid his small, slim, arched feetin the largest and heaviest walking-shoes. There is a story told thathe went to his tailor in Sacramento, and asked him to make him a suitof clothes like everybody else. The tailor, familiar with Mr. Oakhurst'sfastidiousness, did not know what he meant. "I mean," said Mr. Oakhurstsavagely, "something RESPECTABLE,--something that doesn't exactly fitme, you know." But, however Mr. Oakhurst might hide his shapely limbsin homespun and homemade garments, there was something in his carriage,something in the pose of his beautiful head, something in the strongand fine manliness of his presence, something in the perfect and utterdiscipline and control of his muscles, something in the high repose ofhis nature,--a repose not so much a matter of intellectual ruling as ofhis very nature,--that, go where he would, and with whom, he wasalways a notable man in ten thousand. Perhaps this was never so clearlyintimated to Mr. Oakhurst, as when, emboldened by Mr. Hamilton's adviceand assistance, and his own predilections, he became a San Franciscobroker. Even before objection was made to his presence in theBoard,--the objection, I remember, was urged very eloquently by WattSanders, who was supposed to be the inventor of the "freezing-out"system of disposing of poor stockholders, and who also enjoyed thereputation of having been the impelling cause of Briggs of Tuolumne'sruin and suicide,--even before this formal protest of respectabilityagainst lawlessness, the aquiline suggestions of M
r. Oakhurst's mien andcountenance, not only prematurely fluttered the pigeons, but absolutelyoccasioned much uneasiness among the fish-hawks who circled belowhim with their booty. "Dash me! but he's as likely to go after us asanybody," said Joe Fielding.

  It wanted but a few days before the close of the brief summer season atSan Isabel Warm Springs. Already there had been some migration of themore fashionable; and there was an uncomfortable suggestion of dregs andlees in the social life that remained. Mr. Oakhurst was moody. It washinted that even the secure reputation of Mrs. Decker could no longerprotect her from the gossip which his presence excited. It is but fairto her to say, that, during the last few weeks of this trying ordeal,she looked like a sweet, pale martyr, and conducted herself toward hertraducers with the gentle, forgiving manner of one who relied not uponthe idle homage of the crowd, but upon the security of a principle thatwas dearer than popular favor. "They talk about myself and Mr. Oakhurst,my dear," she said to a friend; "but heaven and my husband can bestanswer their calumny. It never shall be said that my husband ever turnedhis back upon a friend in the moment of his adversity, because theposition was changed,--because his friend was poor, and he was rich."This was the first intimation to the public that Jack had lost money,although it was known generally that the Deckers had lately bought somevaluable property in San Francisco.

  A few evenings after this, an incident occurred which seemed tounpleasantly discord with the general social harmony that had alwaysexisted at San Isabel. It was at dinner; and Mr. Oakhurst and Mr.Hamilton, who sat together at a separate table, were observed to risein some agitation. When they reached the hall, by a common instinct theystepped into a little breakfast-room which was vacant, and closed thedoor. Then Mr. Hamilton turned with a half-amused, half-serious smiletoward his friend, and said,--

  "If we are to quarrel, Jack Oakhurst,--you and I,--in the name of allthat is ridiculous, don't let it be about a"--

  I do not know what was the epithet intended. It was either unspokenor lost; for at that very instant Mr. Oakhurst raised a wineglass, anddashed its contents into Hamilton's face.

  As they faced each other, the men seemed to have changed natures.Mr. Oakhurst was trembling with excitement, and the wineglass that hereturned to the table shivered between his fingers. Mr. Hamilton stoodthere, grayish white, erect, and dripping. After a pause, he saidcoldly,--

  "So be it. But remember, our quarrel commences here. If I fall by yourhand, you shall not use it to clear her character: if you fall by mine,you shall not be called a martyr. I am sorry it has come to this; butamen, the sooner now, the better."

  He turned proudly, dropped his lids over cold steel-blue eyes, as ifsheathing a rapier bowed, and passed coldly out.

  They met, twelve hours later, in a little hollow two miles from thehotel, on the Stockton road. As Mr. Oakhurst received his pistol fromCol. Starbottle's hands, he said to him in a low voice, "Whateverturns up or down, I shall not return to the hotel. You will find somedirections in my room. Go there"--But his voice suddenly faltered,and he turned his glistening eyes away, to his second's intenseastonishment. "I've been out a dozen times with Jack Oakhurst," saidCol. Starbottle afterward, "and I never saw him anyways cut before.Blank me if I didn't think he was losing his sand, till he walked toposition."

  The two reports were almost simultaneous. Mr. Oakhurst's right armdropped suddenly to his side, and his pistol would have fallen fromhis paralyzed fingers; but the discipline of trained nerve and muscleprevailed, and he kept his grasp until he had shifted it to the otherhand, without changing his position. Then there was a silence thatseemed interminable, a gathering of two or three dark figures where asmoke-curl still lazily floated, and then the hurried, husky, pantingvoice of Col. Starbottle in his ear, "He's hit hard--through the lungsyou must run for it!"

  Jack turned his dark, questioning eyes upon his second, but did notseem to listen,--rather seemed to hear some other voice, remoter in thedistance. He hesitated, and then made a step forward in the directionof the distant group. Then he paused again as the figures separated, andthe surgeon came hastily toward him.

  "He would like to speak with you a moment," said the man. "You havelittle time to lose, I know; but," he added in a lower voice, "it is myduty to tell you he has still less."

  A look of despair, so hopeless in its intensity, swept over Mr.Oakhurst's usually impassive face, that the surgeon started. "You arehit," he said, glancing at Jack's helpless arm.

  "Nothing--a mere scratch," said Jack hastily. Then he added with abitter laugh, "I'm not in luck to-day. But come: we'll see what hewants."

  His long, feverish stride outstripped the surgeon's; and in anothermoment he stood where the dying man lay,--like most dying men,--the onecalm, composed, central figure of an anxious group. Mr. Oakhurst's facewas less calm as he dropped on one knee beside him, and took hishand. "I want to speak with this gentleman alone," said Hamilton, withsomething of his old imperious manner, as he turned to those about him.When they drew back, he looked up in Oakhurst's face.

  "I've something to tell you, Jack."

  His own face was white, but not so white as that which Mr. Oakhurstbent over him,--a face so ghastly, with haunting doubts, and a hopelesspresentiment of coming evil,--a face so piteous in its infiniteweariness and envy of death, that the dying man was touched, even in thelanguor of dissolution, with a pang of compassion; and the cynical smilefaded from his lips.

  "Forgive me, Jack," he whispered more feebly, "for what I have to say. Idon't say it in anger, but only because it must be said. I could not domy duty to you, I could not die contented, until you knew it all. It's amiserable business at best, all around. But it can't be helped now. OnlyI ought to have fallen by Decker's pistol, and not yours."

  A flush like fire came into Jack's cheek, and he would have risen; butHamilton held him fast.

  "Listen! In my pocket you will find two letters. Take them--there! Youwill know the handwriting. But promise you will not read them until youare in a place of safety. Promise me."

  Jack did not speak, but held the letters between his fingers as if theyhad been burning coals.

  "Promise me," said Hamilton faintly.

  "Why?" asked Oakhurst, dropping his friend's hand coldly.

  "Because," said the dying man with a bitter smile,--"because--when youhave read them--you--will--go back--to capture--and death!"

  They were his last words. He pressed Jack's hand faintly. Then his grasprelaxed, and he fell back a corpse.

  It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and Mrs. Decker reclined languidlyupon the sofa with a novel in her hand, while her husband discussedthe politics of the country in the bar-room of the hotel. It was awarm night; and the French window looking out upon a little balcony waspartly open. Suddenly she heard a foot upon the balcony, and she raisedher eyes from the book with a slight start. The next moment the windowwas hurriedly thrust wide, and a man entered.

  Mrs. Decker rose to her feet with a little cry of alarm.

  "For Heaven's sake, Jack, are you mad? He has only gone for a littlewhile--he may return at any moment. Come an hour later, to-morrow, anytime when I can get rid of him--but go, now, dear, at once."

  Mr. Oakhurst walked toward the door, bolted it, and then faced herwithout a word. His face was haggard; his coat-sleeve hung loosely overan arm that was bandaged and bloody.

  Nevertheless her voice did not falter as she turned again toward him."What has happened, Jack. Why are you here?"

  He opened his coat, and threw two letters in her lap.

  "To return your lover's letters; to kill you--and then myself," he saidin a voice so low as to be almost inaudible.

  Among the many virtues of this admirable woman was invincible courage.She did not faint; she did not cry out; she sat quietly down again,folded her hands in her lap, and said calmly,--

  "And why should you not?"

  Had she recoiled, had she shown any fear or contrition, had she essayedan explanation or apology, Mr. Oakhurst would have looked upon it as
anevidence of guilt. But there is no quality that courage recognizes soquickly as courage. There is no condition that desperation bows beforebut desperation. And Mr. Oakhurst's power of analysis was not so keen asto prevent him from confounding her courage with a moral quality. Evenin his fury, he could not help admiring this dauntless invalid.

  "Why should you not?" she repeated with a smile. "You gave me life,health, and happiness, Jack. You gave me your love. Why should you nottake what you have given? Go on. I am ready."

  She held out her hands with that same infinite grace of yielding withwhich she had taken his own on the first day of their meeting at thehotel. Jack raised his head, looked at her for one wild moment, droppedupon his knees beside her, and raised the folds of her dress to hisfeverish lips. But she was too clever not to instantly see her victory:she was too much of a woman, with all her cleverness, to refrain frompressing that victory home. At the same moment, as with the impulse ofan outraged and wounded woman, she rose, and, with an imperious gesture,pointed to the window. Mr. Oakhurst rose in his turn, cast one glanceupon her, and without another word passed out of her presence forever.

  When he had gone, she closed the window and bolted it, and, going tothe chimney-piece, placed the letters, one by one, in the flame of thecandle until they were consumed. I would not have the reader think,that, during this painful operation, she was unmoved. Her hand trembled,and--not being a brute--for some minutes (perhaps longer) she felt verybadly, and the corners of her sensitive mouth were depressed. When herhusband arrived, it was with a genuine joy that she ran to him, andnestled against his broad breast with a feeling of security thatthrilled the honest fellow to the core.

  "But I've heard dreadful news to-night, Elsie," said Mr. Decker, after afew endearments were exchanged.

  "Don't tell me any thing dreadful, dear: I'm not well to-night," shepleaded sweetly.

  "But it's about Mr. Oakhurst and Hamilton."

  "Please!" Mr. Decker could not resist the petitionary grace of thosewhite hands and that sensitive mouth, and took her to his arms. Suddenlyhe said, "What's that?"

  He was pointing to the bosom of her white dress. Where Mr. Oakhurst hadtouched her, there was a spot of blood.

  It was nothing: she had slightly cut her hand in closing the window; itshut so hard! If Mr. Decker had remembered to close and bolt the shutterbefore he went out, he might have saved her this. There was such agenuine irritability and force in this remark, that Mr. Decker was quiteovercome by remorse. But Mrs. Decker forgave him with that graciousnesswhich I have before pointed out in these pages. And with the halo ofthat forgiveness and marital confidence still lingering above the pair,with the reader's permission we will leave them, and return to Mr.Oakhurst.

  But not for two weeks. At the end of that time, he walked into his roomsin Sacramento, and in his old manner took his seat at the faro-table.

  "How's your arm, Jack?" asked an incautious player.

  There was a smile followed the question, which, however, ceased as Jacklooked up quietly at the speaker.

  "It bothers my dealing a little; but I can shoot as well with my left."

  The game was continued in that decorous silence which usuallydistinguished the table at which Mr. John Oakhurst presided.