by Bret Harte
CHAPER VII.
Mr. Daniel Harcourt's town mansion was also on an eminence, but itwas that gentler acclivity of fashion known as Rincon Hill, andsunned itself on a southern slope of luxury. It had been describedas "princely" and "fairy-like," by a grateful reporter; tourists andtravelers had sung its praises in letters to their friends and inprivate reminiscences, for it had dispensed hospitality to most of thecelebrities who had visited the coast. Nevertheless its charm was mainlydue to the ruling taste of Miss Clementina Harcourt, who had astonishedher father by her marvelous intuition of the nice requirements andelegant responsibilities of their position; and had thrown her motherinto the pained perplexity of a matronly hen, who, among the ducks' eggsintrusted to her fostering care, had unwittingly hatched a graceful butdiscomposing cygnet.
Indeed, after holding out feebly against the siege of wealth at Tasajaraand San Francisco, Mrs. Harcourt had abandoned herself hopelessly tothe horrors of its invasion; had allowed herself to be dragged from herkitchen by her exultant daughters and set up in black silk in a certainconventional respectability in the drawing-room. Strange to say, hercommiserating hospitality, or hospital-like ministration, not only gaveher popularity, but a certain kind of distinction. An exaltationso sorrowfully deprecated by its possessor was felt to be a sign ofsuperiority. She was spoken of as "motherly," even by those who vaguelyknew that there was somewhere a discarded son struggling in povertywith a helpless wife, and that she had sided with her husband indisinheriting a daughter who had married unwisely. She was sentimentallyspoken of as a "true wife," while never opposing a single meanness ofher husband, suggesting a single active virtue, nor questioning herright to sacrifice herself and her family for his sake. With nothingshe cared to affect, she was quite free from affectation, and even thecritical Lawrence Grant was struck with the dignity which her narrowsimplicity, that had seemed small even in Sidon, attained in herpalatial hall in San Francisco. It appeared to be a perfectly logicalconclusion that when such unaffectedness and simplicity were forced toassume a hostile attitude to anybody, the latter must be to blame.
Since the festival of Tasajara Mr. Grant had been a frequent visitorat Harcourt's, and was a guest on the eve of his departure from SanFrancisco. The distinguished position of each made their relationsappear quite natural without inciting gossip as to any attraction inHarcourt's daughters. It was late one afternoon as he was passing thedoor of Harcourt's study that his host called him in. He found himsitting at his desk with some papers before him and a folded copy of the"Clarion." With his back to the fading light of the window his face waspartly in shadow.
"By the way, Grant," he began, with an assumption of carelessnesssomewhat inconsistent with the fact that he had just called him in, "itmay be necessary for me to pull up those fellows who are blackguardingme in the 'Clarion.'"
"Why, they haven't been saying anything new?" asked Grant, laughingly,as he glanced towards the paper.
"No--that is--only a rehash of what they said before," returned Harcourtwithout opening the paper.
"Well," said Grant playfully, "you don't mind their saying that you'reNOT the original pioneer of Tasajara, for it's true; nor that thatfellow 'Lige Curtis disappeared suddenly, for he did, if I rememberrightly. But there's nothing in that to invalidate your rights toTasajara, to say nothing of your five years' undisputed possession."
"Of course there's no LEGAL question," said Harcourt almost sharply."But as a matter of absurd report, I may want to contradict theirinsinuations. And YOU remember all the circumstances, don't you?"
"I should think so! Why, my dear fellow, I've told it everywhere!--here,in New York, Newport, and in London; by Jove, it's one of my beststories! How a company sent me out with a surveyor to look up a railroadand agricultural possibilities in the wilderness; how just as I foundthem--and a rather big thing they made, too--I was set afloat by aflood and a raft, and drifted ashore on your bank, and practicallydemonstrated to you what you didn't know and didn't dare to hopefor--that there could be a waterway straight to Sidon from theembarcadero. I've told what a charming evening we had with you andyour daughters in the old house, and how I returned your hospitality bygiving you a tip about the railroad; and how you slipped out while wewere playing cards, to clinch the bargain for the land with that drunkenfellow, 'Lige Curtis"--
"What's that?" interrupted Harcourt, quickly.
It was well that the shadow hid from Grant the expression of Harcourt'sface, or his reply might have been sharper. As it was, he answered alittle stiffly:--
"I beg your pardon"--
Harcourt recovered himself. "You're all wrong!" he said, "that bargainwas made long BEFORE; I never saw 'Lige Curtis after you came to thehouse. It was before that, in the afternoon," he went on hurriedly,"that he was last in my store. I can prove it." Nevertheless he was soshocked and indignant at being confronted in his own suppressions andfalsehoods by an even greater and more astounding misconception offact, that for a moment he felt helpless. What, he reflected, if it werealleged that 'Lige had returned again after the loafers had gone, or hadnever left the store as had been said? Nonsense! There was John Milton,who had been there reading all the time, and who could disprove it. Yes,but John Milton was his discarded son,--his enemy,--perhaps even hisvery slanderer!
"But," said Grant quietly, "don't you remember that your daughterEuphemia said something that evening about the land Lige had OFFEREDyou, and you snapped up the young lady rather sharply for letting outsecrets, and THEN you went out? At least that's my impression."
It was, however, more than an impression; with Grant's scientific memoryfor characteristic details he had noticed that particular circumstanceas part of the social phenomena.
"I don't know what Phemie SAID," returned Harcourt, impatiently. "I KNOWthere was no offer pending; the land had been sold to me before I eversaw you. Why--you must have thought me up to pretty sharp practice withCurtis--eh?" he added, with a forced laugh.
Grant smiled; he had been accustomed to hear of such sharp practiceamong his business acquaintance, although he himself by nature andprofession was incapable of it, but he had not deemed Harcourt morescrupulous than others. "Perhaps so," he said lightly, "but for Heaven'ssake don't ask me to spoil my reputation as a raconteur for the sake ofa mere fact or two. I assure you it's a mighty taking story as I tellit--and it don't hurt you in a business way. You're the hero of it--hangit all!"
"Yes," said Harcourt, without noticing Grant's half cynical superiority,"but you'll oblige me if you won't tell it again IN THAT WAY. There aremen here mean enough to make the worst of it. It's nothing to me, ofcourse, but my family--the girls, you know--are rather sensitive."
"I had no idea they even knew it,--much less cared for it," said Grant,with sudden seriousness. "I dare say if those fellows in the 'Clarion'knew that they were annoying the ladies they'd drop it. Who's theeditor? Look here--leave it to me; I'll look into it. Better that youshouldn't appear in the matter at all."
"You understand that if it was a really serious matter, Grant," saidHarcourt with a slight attitude, "I shouldn't allow any one to take myplace."
"My dear fellow, there'll be nobody 'called out' and no 'shooting atsight,' whatever is the result of my interference," returned Grant,lightly. "It'll be all right." He was quite aware of the power of hisown independent position and the fact that he had been often appealed tobefore in delicate arbitration.
Harcourt was equally conscious of this, but by a strange inconsistencynow felt relieved at the coolness with which Grant had accepted themisconception which had at first seemed so dangerous. If he were readyto condone what he thought was SHARP PRACTICE, he could not be lesslenient with the real facts that might come out,--of course alwaysexcepting that interpolated consideration in the bill of sale, which,however, no one but the missing Curtis could ever discover. The factthat a man of Grant's secure position had interested himself in thismatter would secure him from the working of that personal vulgarjealousy which his humbler antecedents had provoke
d. And if, as hefancied, Grant really cared for Clementina--
"As you like," he said, with half-affected lightness, "and now let ustalk of something else. Clementina has been thinking of getting upa riding party to San Mateo for Mrs. Ashwood. We must show them somecivility, and that Boston brother of hers, Mr. Shipley, will have tobe invited also. I can't get away, and my wife, of course, will onlybe able to join them at San Mateo in the carriage. I reckon it would beeasier for Clementina if you took my place, and helped her look afterthe riding party. It will need a man, and I think she'd prefer you--asyou know she's rather particular--unless, of course, you'd be wanted forMrs. Ashwood or Phemie, or somebody else."
From his shadowed corner he could see that a pleasant light had sprunginto Grant's eyes, although his reply was in his ordinary easy banter."I shall be only too glad to act as Miss Clementina's vaquero, and lassoher runaways, or keep stragglers in the road."
There seemed to be small necessity, however, for this activeco-operation, for when the cheerful cavalcade started from the housea few mornings later, Mr. Lawrence Grant's onerous duties seemed to besimply confined to those of an ordinary cavalier at the side of MissClementina, a few paces in the rear of the party. But this safe distancegave them the opportunity of conversing without being overheard,--anapparently discreet precaution.
"Your father was so exceedingly affable to me the other day that if Ihadn't given you my promise to say nothing, I think I would have fallenon my knees to him then and there, revealed my feelings, asked for yourhand and his blessing--or whatever one does at such a time. But how longdo you intend to keep me in this suspense?"
Clementina turned her clear eyes half abstractedly upon him, as ifimperfectly recalling some forgotten situation. "You forget," she said,"that part of your promise was that you wouldn't even speak of it to meagain without my permission."
"But my time is so short now. Give me some definite hope before I go.Let me believe that when we meet in New York"--
"You will find me just the same as now! Yes, I think I can promise THAT.Let that suffice. You said the other day you liked me because I had notchanged for five years. You can surely trust that I will not alter in asmany months."
"If I only knew"--
"Ah, if I only knew,--if WE ALL only knew. But we don't. Come, Mr.Grant, let it rest as it is. Unless you want to go still further backand have it as it WAS, at Sidon. There I think you fancied Euphemiamost."
"Clementina!"
"That is my name, and those people ahead of us know it already."
"You are called CLEMENTINA,--but you are not merciful!"
"You are very wrong, for you might see that Mr. Shipley has twicechecked his horse that he might hear what you are saying, and Phemie isalways showing Mrs. Ashwood something in the landscape behind us."
All this was the more hopeless and exasperating to Grant since in theyoung girl's speech and manner there was not the slightest trace ofcoquetry or playfulness. He could not help saying a little bitterly: "Idon't think that any one would imagine from your manner that you werereceiving a declaration."
"But they might imagine from yours that you had the right to quarrelwith me,--which would be worse."
"We cannot part like this! It is too cruel to me."
"We cannot part otherwise without the risk of greater cruelty."
"But say at least, Clementina, that I have no rival. There is no othermore favored suitor?"
"That is so like a man--and yet so unlike the proud one I believed youto be. Why should a man like you even consider such a possibility? If Iwere a man I know I couldn't." She turned upon him a glance so clear anduntroubled by either conscious vanity or evasion that he was hopelesslyconvinced of the truth of her statement, and she went on in a slightlylowered tone, "You have no right to ask me such a question,--but perhapsfor that reason I am willing to answer you. There is none. Hush! For agood rider you are setting a poor example to the others, by crowdingme towards the bank. Go forward and talk to Phemie, and tell her not toworry Mrs. Ashwood's horse nor race with her; I don't think he's quitesafe, and Mrs. Ashwood isn't accustomed to using the Spanish bit.I suppose I must say something to Mr. Shipley, who doesn't seem tounderstand that I'M acting as chaperon, and YOU as captain of theparty."
She cantered forward as she spoke, and Grant was obliged to join hersister, who, mounted on a powerful roan, was mischievously excitinga beautiful quaker-colored mustang ridden by Mrs. Ashwood, alreadyirritated by the unfamiliar pressure of the Eastern woman's hand uponhis bit. The thick dust which had forced the party of twenty to close upin two solid files across the road compelled them at the first openingin the roadside fence to take the field in a straggling gallop. Grant,eager to escape from his own discontented self by doing something forothers, reined in beside Euphemia and the fair stranger.
"Let me take your place until Mrs. Ashwood's horse is quieted," he halfwhispered to Euphemia.
"Thank you,--and I suppose it does not make any matter to Clem whoquiets mine," she said, with provoking eyes and a toss of her headworthy of the spirited animal she was riding.
"She thinks you quite capable of managing yourself and even others,"he replied with a playful glance at Shipley, who was riding somewhatstiffly on the other side.
"Don't be too sure," retorted Phemie with another dangerous look; "I maygive you trouble yet."
They were approaching the first undulation of the russet plain they hademerged upon,--an umbrageous slope that seemed suddenly to divergein two defiles among the shaded hills. Grant had given a few words ofpractical advice to Mrs. Ashwood, and shown her how to guide her mustangby the merest caressing touch of the rein upon its sensitive neck. Hehad not been sympathetically inclined towards the fair stranger, a richand still youthful widow, although he could not deny her unquestionedgood breeding, mental refinement, and a certain languorousthoughtfulness that was almost melancholy, which accented her blondedelicacy. But he had noticed that her manner was politely reserved andslightly constrained towards the Harcourts, and he had already resentedit with a lover's instinctive loyalty. He had at first attributed itto a want of sympathy between Mrs. Ashwood's more intellectualsentimentalities and the Harcourts' undeniable lack of any sentimentwhatever. But there was evidently some other innate antagonism. Hewas very polite to Mrs. Ashwood; she responded with a gentlewoman'scourtesy, and, he was forced to admit, even a broader comprehensionof his own merits than the Harcourt girls had ever shown, but he couldstill detect that she was not in accord with the party.
"I am afraid you do not like California, Mrs. Ashwood?" he saidpleasantly. "You perhaps find the life here too unrestrained andunconventional?"
She looked at him in quick astonishment. "Are you quite sincere? Why,it strikes me that this is just what it is NOT. And I have so longedfor something quite different. From what I have been told about theoriginality and adventure of everything here, and your independence ofold social forms and customs, I am afraid I expected the oppositeof what I've seen. Why, this very party--except that the ladies areprettier and more expensively gotten up--is like any party that mighthave ridden out at Saratoga or New York."
"And as stupid, you would say."
"As CONVENTIONAL, Mr. Grant; always excepting this lovely creaturebeneath me, whom I can't make out and who doesn't seem to care that Ishould. There! look! I told you so!"
Her mustang had suddenly bounded forward; but as Grant followed hecould see that the cause was the example of Phemie, who had, in somemad freak, dashed out in a frantic gallop. A half-dozen of theyounger people hilariously accepted the challenge; the excitement wascommunicated to the others, until the whole cavalcade was sweepingdown the slope. Grant was still at Mrs. Ashwood's side, restrainingher mustang and his own impatient horse when Clementina joined them."Phemie's mare has really bolted, I fear," she said in a quick whisper,"ride on, and never mind us." Grant looked quickly ahead; Phemie's roan,excited by the shouts behind her and to all appearance ungovernable, wasfast disappearing with her rider. Without a word,
trusting to his owngood horsemanship and better knowledge of the ground, he darted out ofthe cavalcade to overtake her.
But the unfortunate result of this was to give further impulse to thenow racing horses as they approached a point where the slope terminatedin two diverging canyons. Mrs. Ashwood gave a sharp pull upon herbit. To her consternation the mustang stopped short almostinstantly,--planting his two fore feet rigidly in the dust and evensliding forward with the impetus. Had her seat been less firm she mighthave been thrown, but she recovered herself, although in doing soshe still bore upon the bit, when to her astonishment the mustangdeliberately stiffened himself as if for a shock, and then began to backslowly, quivering with excitement. She did not know that her native-bredanimal fondly believed that he was participating in a rodeo, and that tohis equine intelligence his fair mistress had just lassoed something!In vain she urged him forward; he still waited for the shock! When thecloud of dust in which she had been enwrapped drifted away, she saw toher amazement that she was alone. The entire party had disappeared intoone of the canyons,--but which one she could not tell!
When she succeeded at last in urging her mustang forward again shedetermined to take the right-hand canyon and trust to being either metor overtaken. A more practical and less adventurous nature would havewaited at the point of divergence for the return of some of the party,but Mrs. Ashwood was, in truth, not sorry to be left to herself and thenovel scenery for a while, and she had no doubt but she would eventuallyfind her way to the hotel at San Mateo, which could not be far away, intime for luncheon.
The road was still well defined, although it presently began to windbetween ascending ranks of pines and larches that marked the terracesof hills, so high that she wondered she had not noticed them from theplains. An unmistakable suggestion of some haunting primeval solitude,a sense of the hushed and mysterious proximity of a nature she had neverknown before, the strange half-intoxicating breath of unsunned foliageand untrodden grasses and herbs, all combined to exalt her as shecantered forward. Even her horse seemed to have acquired an intelligentliberty, or rather to have established a sympathy with her in his needsand her own longings; instinctively she no longer pulled him with thecurb; the reins hung loosely on his self-arched and unfettered neck;secure in this loneliness she found herself even talking to him withbarbaric freedom. As she went on, the vague hush of all things animateand inanimate around her seemed to thicken, until she unconsciouslyhalted before a dim and pillared wood, and a vast and heathless openingon whose mute brown lips Nature seemed to have laid the finger ofsilence. She forgot the party she had left, she forgot the luncheon shewas going to; more important still she forgot that she had already leftthe traveled track far behind her, and, tremulous with anticipation,rode timidly into that arch of shadow.
As her horse's hoofs fell noiselessly on the elastic moss-carpeted aisleshe forgot even more than that. She forgot the artificial stimulus andexcitement of the life she had been leading so long; she forgot thesmall meannesses and smaller worries of her well-to-do experiences; sheforgot herself,--rather she regained a self she had long forgotten.For in the sweet seclusion of this half darkened sanctuary the clingingfripperies of her past slipped from her as a tawdry garment. Thepetted, spoiled, and vapidly precocious girlhood which had merged intoa womanhood of aimless triumphs and meaner ambitions; the worldly butmiserable triumph of a marriage that had left her delicacy abused andher heart sick and unsatisfied; the wifehood without home, seclusion,or maternity; the widowhood that at last brought relief, but with it theconsciousness of hopelessly wasted youth,--all this seemed to drop fromher here as lightly as the winged needles or noiseless withered sprayfrom the dim gray vault above her head. In the sovereign balm of thatwoodland breath her better spirit was restored; somewhere in thesewholesome shades seemed to still lurk what should have been her innocentand nymph-like youth, and to come out once more and greet her. Old songsshe had forgotten, or whose music had failed in the discords of herfrivolous life, sang themselves to her again in that sweet, gravesilence; girlish dreams that she had foolishly been ashamed of, or hadput away with her childish toys, stole back to her once more and becamereal in this tender twilight; old fancies, old fragments of verse andchildish lore, grew palpable and moved faintly before her. The boyishprince who should have come was there; the babe that should have beenhers was there!--she stopped suddenly with flaming eyes and indignantcolor. For it appeared that a MAN was there too, and had just risen fromthe fallen tree where he had been sitting.
