by Bret Harte
CHAPER IX.
The wayfarers on the Tasajara turnpike, whom Mr. Daniel Harcourtpassed with his fast trotting mare and sulky, saw that their greatfellow-townsman was more than usually preoccupied and curt in hisacknowledgment of their salutations. Nevertheless as he drew nearthe creek, he partly checked his horse, and when he reached a slightacclivity of the interminable plain--which had really been the bank ofthe creek in bygone days--he pulled up, alighted, tied his horse to arail fence, and clambering over the inclosure made his way along theridge. It was covered with nettles, thistles, and a few wiry dwarflarches of native growth; dust from the adjacent highway had invadedit, with a few scattered and torn handbills, waste paper, rags, emptyprovision cans, and other suburban debris. Yet it was the site of 'LigeCurtis's cabin, long since erased and forgotten. The bed of the oldcreek had receded; the last tules had been cleared away; the channel andembarcadero were half a mile from the bank and log whereon the pioneerof Tasajara had idly sunned himself.
Mr. Harcourt walked on, occasionally turning over the scattered objectswith his foot, and stopping at times to examine the ground more closely.It had not apparently been disturbed since he himself, six years ago,had razed the wretched shanty and carried off its timbers to aid in theerection of a larger cabin further inland. He raised his eyes to theprospect before him,--to the town with its steamboats lying at thewharves, to the grain elevator, the warehouses, the railroad stationwith its puffing engines, the flagstaff of Harcourt House and theclustering roofs of the town, and beyond, the painted dome of his lastcreation, the Free Library. This was all HIS work, HIS planning, HISforesight, whatever they might say of the wandering drunkard from whosetremulous fingers he had snatched the opportunity. They could not takeTHAT from him, however they might follow him with envy and reviling,any more than they could wrest from him the five years of peacefulpossession. It was with something of the prosperous consciousness withwhich he had mounted the platform on the opening of the Free Library,that he now climbed into his buggy and drove away.
Nevertheless he stopped at his Land Office as he drove into town,and gave a few orders. "I want a strong picket fence put around thefifty-vara lot in block fifty-seven, and the ground cleared up at once.Let me know when the men get to work, and I'll overlook them."
Re-entering his own house in the square, where Mrs. Harcourt andClementina--who often accompanied him in those business visits--werewaiting for him with luncheon, he smiled somewhat superciliously as theservant informed him that "Professor Grant had just arrived." Reallythat man was trying to make the most of his time with Clementina!Perhaps the rival attractions of that Boston swell Shipley had somethingto do with it! He must positively talk to Clementina about this. Inpoint of fact he himself was a little disappointed in Grant, who, sincehis offer to take the task of hunting down his calumniators, had reallydone nothing. He turned into his study, but was slightly astonished tofind that Grant, instead of paying court to Clementina in the adjoiningdrawing-room, was sitting rather thoughtfully in his own armchair.
He rose as Harcourt entered. "I didn't let them announce me to theladies," he said, "as I have some important business with you first, andwe may find it necessary that I should take the next train back to town.You remember that a few weeks ago I offered to look into the matter ofthose slanders against you. I apprehended it would be a trifling matterof envy or jealousy on the part of your old associates or neighborswhich could be put straight with a little good feeling; but I must befrank with you, Harcourt, and say at the beginning that it turns outto be an infernally ugly business. Call it conspiracy if you like, ororganized hostility, I'm afraid it will require a lawyer rather thanan arbitrator to manage it, and the sooner the better. For the mostunpleasant thing about it is, that I can't find out exactly HOW BAD itis!"
Unfortunately the weaker instinct of Harcourt's nature was first roused;the vulgar rage which confounds the bearer of ill news with thenews itself filled his breast. "And this is all that your confoundedintermeddling came to?" he said brutally.
"No," said Grant quietly, with a preoccupied ignoring of the insult thatwas more hopeless for Harcourt. "I found out that it is claimed thatthis 'Lige Curtis was not drowned nor lost that night; but that heescaped, and for three years has convinced another man that you arewrongfully in possession of this land; that these two naturally hold youin their power, and that they are only waiting for you to be forced intolegal proceedings for slander to prove all their charges. Untilthen, for some reason best known to themselves, Curtis remains in thebackground."
"Does he deny the deed under which I hold the property?" said Harcourtsavagely.
"He says it was only a security for a trifling loan, and not an actualtransfer."
"And don't those fools know that his security could be forfeited?"
"Yes, but not in the way it is recorded in the county clerk's office.They say that the record shows that there was an interpolation in thepaper he left with you--which was a forgery. Briefly, Harcourt, you areaccused of that. More,--it is intimated that when he fell into the creekthat night, and escaped on a raft that was floating past, that he hadbeen first stunned by a blow from some one interested in getting rid ofhim."
He paused and glanced out of the window.
"Is that all?" asked Harcourt in a perfectly quiet, steady, voice.
"All!" replied Grant, struck with the change in his companion's manner,and turning his eyes upon him quickly.
The change indeed was marked and significant. Whether from relief atknowing the worst, or whether he was experiencing the same reaction fromthe utter falsity of this last accusation that he had felt when Granthad unintentionally wronged him in his previous recollection, certain itis that some unknown reserve of strength in his own nature, of whichhe knew nothing before, suddenly came to his aid in this extremity. Itinvested him with an uncouth dignity that for the first time excitedGrant's respect.
"I beg your pardon, Grant, for the hasty way I spoke to you a momentago, for I thank you, and appreciate thoroughly and sincerely what youhave done. You are right; it is a matter for fighting and not fussingover. But I must have a head to hit. Whose is it?"
"The man who holds himself legally responsible is Fletcher,--theproprietor of the 'Clarion,' and a man of property."
"The 'Clarion'? That is the paper which began the attack?" saidHarcourt.
"Yes, and it is only fair to tell you here that your son threw up hisplace on it in consequence of its attack upon you."
There was perhaps the slightest possible shrinking in Harcourt'seyelids--the one congenital likeness to his discarded son--but hisotherwise calm demeanor did not change. Grant went on more cheerfully:"I've told you all I know. When I spoke of an unknown WORST, I did notrefer to any further accusation, but to whatever evidence they mighthave fabricated or suborned to prove any one of them. It is only thestrength and fairness of the hands they hold that is uncertain.Against that you have your certain uncontested possession, the peculiarcharacter and antecedents of this 'Lige Curtis, which would make hisevidence untrustworthy and even make it difficult for them to establishhis identity. I am told that his failure to contest your appropriationof his property is explained by the fact of his being absent from thecountry most of the time; but again, this would not account for theirsilence until within the last six months, unless they have been waitingfor further evidence to establish it. But even then they must have knownthat the time of recovery had passed. You are a practical man, Harcourt;I needn't tell you therefore what your lawyer will probably tell you,that practically, so far as your rights are concerned, you remainas before these calumnies; that a cause of action unprosecuted orin abeyance is practically no cause, and that it is not for you toanticipate one. BUT"--
He paused and looked steadily at Harcourt. Harcourt met his look with adull, ox-like stolidity. "I shall begin the suit at once," he said.
"And I," said Grant, holding out his hand, "will stand by you. But tellme now what you knew of this man Curtis,--his character and dispo
sition;it may be some clue as to what are his methods and his intentions."
Harcourt briefly sketched 'Lige Curtis as he knew him and understoodhim. It was another indication of his reserved power that thedescription was so singularly clear, practical, unprejudiced, andimpartial that it impressed Grant with its truthfulness.
"I can't make him out," he said; "you have drawn a weak, but neither adishonest nor malignant man. There must have been somebody behind him.Can you think of any personal enemy?"
"I have been subjected to the usual jealousy and envy of my oldneighbors, I suppose, but nothing more. I have harmed no one knowingly."
Grant was silent; it had flashed across him that Rice might haveharbored revenge for his father-in-law's interference in his briefmatrimonial experience. He had also suddenly recalled his conversationwith Billings on the day that he first arrived at Tasajara. It would notbe strange if this man had some intimation of the secret. He would tryto find him that evening. He rose.
"You will stay to dinner? My wife and Clementina will expect you."
"Not to-night; I am dining at the hotel," said Grant, smilingly; "but Iwill come in later in the evening if I may." He paused hesitatingly fora moment. "Have your wife and daughter ever expressed any opinion onthis matter?"
"No," said Harcourt. "Mrs. Harcourt knows nothing of anything that doesnot happen IN the house; Euphemia knows only the things that happen outof it where she is visiting--and I suppose that young men prefer totalk to her about other things than the slanders of her father. AndClementina--well, you know how calm and superior to these things SHEis."
"For that very reason I thought that perhaps she might be able to seethem more clearly,--but no matter! I dare say you are quite right innot discussing them at home." This was the fact, although Grant had notforgotten that Harcourt had put forward his daughters as a reason forstopping the scandal some weeks before,--a reason which, however, seemednever to have been borne out by any apparent sensitiveness of the girlsthemselves.
When Grant had left, Harcourt remained for some moments steadfastlygazing from the window over the Tasajara plain. He had not lost hislook of concentrated power, nor his determination to fight. A strugglebetween himself and the phantoms of the past had become now a necessarystimulus for its own sake,--for the sake of his mental and physicalequipoise. He saw before him the pale, agitated, irresolute features of'Lige Curtis,--not the man HE had injured, but the man who had injuredHIM, whose spirit was aimlessly and wantonly--for he had neverattempted to get back his possessions in his lifetime, nor ever triedto communicate with the possessor--striking at him in the shadow. Andit was THAT man, that pale, writhing, frightened wretch whom he had oncemercifully helped! Yes, whose LIFE he had even saved that night fromexposure and delirium tremens when he had given him the whiskey. Andthis life he had saved, only to have it set in motion a conspiracy toruin him! Who knows that 'Lige had not purposely conceived what they hadbelieved to be an attempt at suicide, only to cast suspicion of murderon HIM! From which it will be perceived that Harcourt's powers of moralreasoning had not improved in five years, and that even the impartialityhe had just shown in his description of 'Lige to Grant had beenswallowed up in this new sense of injury. The founder of Tasajara, whosecool business logic, unfailing foresight, and practical deductions werenever at fault, was once more childishly adrift in his moral ethics.
And there was Clementina, of whose judgment Grant had spoken sopersistently,--could she assist him? It was true, as he had said, hehad never talked to her of his affairs. In his sometimes uneasyconsciousness of her superiority he had shrunk from even revealing hisanxieties, much less his actual secret, and from anything that mightprejudice the lofty paternal attitude he had taken towards his daughtersfrom the beginning of his good fortune. He was never quite sure if heracceptance of it was real; he was never entirely free from a certainjealousy that always mingled with his pride in her superior rectitude;and yet his feeling was distinct from the good-natured contempt hehad for his wife's loyalty, the anger and suspicion that his son'sopposition had provoked, and the half-affectionate toleration he hadfelt for Euphemia's waywardness. However he would sound Clementinawithout betraying himself.
He was anticipated by a slight step in the passage and the pushing openof his study door. The tall, graceful figure of the girl herself stoodin the opening.
"They tell me Mr. Grant has been here. Does he stay to dinner?"
"No, he has an engagement at the hotel, but he will probably drop inlater. Come in, Clemmy, I want to talk to you. Shut the door and sitdown."
She slipped in quietly, shut the door, took a seat on the sofa, softlysmoothed down her gown, and turned her graceful head and serenelycomposed face towards him. Sitting thus she looked like some finelyfinished painting that decorated rather than belonged to the room,--notonly distinctly alien to the flesh and blood relative before her, butto the house, and even the local, monotonous landscape beyond the windowwith the shining new shingles and chimneys that cut the new blue sky.These singular perfections seemed to increase in Harcourt's mind theexasperating sense of injury inflicted upon him by 'Lige's exposures.With a daughter so incomparably gifted,--a matchless creation that wasenough in herself to ennoble that fortune which his own skill and geniushad lifted from the muddy tules of Tasajara where this 'Lige had leftit,--that SHE should be subjected to this annoyance seemed an infamythat Providence could not allow! What was his mere venial transgressionto this exaggerated retribution?
"Clemmy, girl, I'm going to ask you a question. Listen, pet." He hadbegun with a reminiscent tenderness of the epoch of her childhood, butmeeting the unresponding maturity of her clear eyes he abandoned it."You know, Clementina, I have never interfered in your affairs, nortried to influence your friendships for anybody. Whatever people mayhave to say of me they can't say that! I've always trusted you, as Iwould myself, to choose your own associates; I have never regretted it,and I don't regret it now. But I'd like to know--I have reasons to-dayfor asking--how matters stand between you and Grant."
The Parian head of Minerva on the bookcase above her did not offer thespectator a face less free from maidenly confusion than Clementina'sat that moment. Her father had certainly expected none, but he was notprepared for the perfect coolness of her reply.
"Do you mean, have I ACCEPTED him?"
"No,--well--yes."
"No, then! Is that what he wished to see you about? It was understoodthat he was not to allude again to the subject to any one."
"He has not to ME. It was only my own idea. He had something verydifferent to tell me. You may not know, Clementina," he beguncautiously, "that I have been lately the subject of some anonymousslanders, and Grant has taken the trouble to track them down for me. Itis a calumny that goes back as far as Sidon, and I may want your levelhead and good memory to help me to refute it." He then repeated calmlyand clearly, with no trace of the fury that had raged within him amoment before, the substance of Grant's revelation.
The young girl listened without apparent emotion. When he had finishedshe said quickly: "And what do you want me to recollect?"
The hardest part of Harcourt's task was coming. "Well, don't youremember that I told you the day the surveyors went away--that--I hadbought this land of 'Lige Curtis some time before?"
"Yes, I remember your saying so, but"--
"But what?"
"I thought you only meant that to satisfy mother."
Daniel Harcourt felt the blood settling round his heart, but he wasconstrained by an irresistible impulse to know the worst. "Well, whatdid YOU think it really was?"
"I only thought that 'Lige Curtis had simply let you have it, that'sall."
Harcourt breathed again. "But what for? Why should he?"
"Well--ON MY ACCOUNT."
"On YOUR account! What in Heaven's name had YOU to do with it?"
"He loved me." There was not the slightest trace of vanity,self-consciousness or coquetry in her quiet, fateful face, and for thisvery reason Harcourt knew that she wa
s speaking the truth.
"Loved YOU!--you, Clementina!--my daughter! Did he ever TELL you so?"
"Not in words. He used to walk up and down on the road when I was at theback window or in the garden, and often hung about the bank of the creekfor hours, like some animal. I don't think the others saw him, and whenthey did they thought it was Parmlee for Euphemia. Even Euphemia thoughtso too, and that was why she was so conceited and hard to Parmleetowards the end. She thought it was Parmlee that night when Grant andRice came; but it was 'Lige Curtis who had been watching the windowlights in the rain, and who must have gone off at last to speak toyou in the store. I always let Phemie believe that it was Parmlee,--itseemed to please her."
There was not the least tone of mischief or superiority, or even ofpatronage in her manner. It was as quiet and cruel as the fate thatmight have led 'Lige to his destruction. Even her father felt a slightthrill of awe as she paused. "Then he never really spoke to you?" heasked hurriedly.
"Only once. I was gathering swamp lilies all alone, a mile below thebend of the creek, and he came upon me suddenly. Perhaps it was that Ididn't jump or start--I didn't see anything to jump or start at--that hesaid, 'You're not frightened at me, Miss Harcourt, like the other girls?You don't think I'm drunk or half mad--as they do?' I don't rememberexactly what I said, but it meant that whether he was drunk or half mador sober I didn't see any reason to be afraid of him. And then he toldme that if I was fond of swamp lilies I might have all I wanted at hisplace, and for the matter of that the place too, as he was going away,for he couldn't stand the loneliness any longer. He said that he hadnothing in common with the place and the people--no more than I had--andthat was what he had always fancied in me. I told him that if he feltin that way about his place he ought to leave it, or sell it to some onewho cared for it, and go away. That must have been in his mind when heoffered it to you,--at least that's what I thought when you told us youhad bought it. I didn't know but what he might have told you, but youdidn't care to say it before mother."
Mr. Harcourt sat gazing at her with breathless amazement. "Andyou--think that--'Lige Curtis--lov--liked you?"
"Yes, I think he did--and that he does now!"
"NOW! What do you mean? The man is dead!" said Harcourt starting.
"That's just what I don't believe."
"Impossible! Think of what you are saying."
"I never could quite understand or feel that he was dead when everybodysaid so, and now that I've heard this story I KNOW that he is living."
"But why did he not make himself known in time to claim the property?"
"Because he did not care for it."
"What did he care for, then?"
"Me, I suppose."
"But this calumny is not like a man who loves you."
"It is like a JEALOUS one."
With an effort Harcourt threw off his bewildered incredulity and graspedthe situation. He would have to contend with his enemy in the flesh andblood, but that flesh and blood would be very weak in the hands of theimpassive girl beside him. His face lightened.
The same idea might have been in Clementina's mind when she spoke again,although her face had remained unchanged. "I do not see why YOU shouldbother yourself further about it," she said. "It is only a matterbetween myself and him; you can leave it to me."
"But if you are mistaken and he should not be living?"
"I am not mistaken. I am even certain now that I have seen him."
"Seen him!"
"Yes," said the girl with the first trace of animation in her face."It was four or five months ago when we were visiting the Briones atMonterey. We had ridden out to the old Mission by moonlight. There weresome Mexicans lounging around the posada, and one of them attracted myattention by the way he seemed to watch me, without revealing any moreof his face than I could see between his serape and the black silkhandkerchief that was tied around his head under his sombrero. But Iknew he was an American--and his eyes were familiar. I believe it washe."
"Why did you not speak of it before?"
The look of animation died out of the girl's face. "Why should I?" shesaid listlessly. "I did not know of these reports then. He was nothingmore to us. You wouldn't have cared to see him again." She rose,smoothed out her skirt and stood looking at her father. "There is onething, of course, that you'll do at once."
Her voice had changed so oddly that he said quickly: "What's that?"
"Call Grant off the scent. He'll only frighten or exasperate your game,and that's what you don't want."
Her voice was as imperious as it had been previously listless. And itwas the first time he had ever known her to use slang.
It seemed as startling as if it had fallen from the marble lips abovehim.
"But I've promised him that we should go together to my lawyerto-morrow, and begin a suit against the proprietors of the 'Clarion.'"
"Do nothing of the kind. Get rid of Grant's assistance in this matter;and see the 'Clarion' proprietor yourself. What sort of a man is he? Canyou invite him to your house?"
"I have never seen him; I believe he lives at San Jose. He is a wealthyman and a large land owner there. You understand that after the firstarticle appeared in his paper, and I knew that he had employed yourbrother--although Grant says that he had nothing to do with it and leftFletcher on account of it--I could have no intercourse with him. Even ifI invited him he would not come."
"He MUST come. Leave it to ME." She stopped and resumed her formerimpassive manner. "I had something to say to you too, father. Mr.Shipley proposed to me the day we went to San Mateo."
Her father's eyes lit with an eager sparkle. "Well," he said quickly.
"I reminded him that I had known him only a few weeks, and that I wantedtime to consider."
"Consider! Why, Clemmy, he's one of the oldest Boston families, richfrom his father and grandfather--rich when I was a shopkeeper and yourmother"--
"I thought you liked Grant?" she said quietly.
"Yes, but if YOU have no choice nor feeling in the matter, why Shipleyis far the better man. And if any of the scandal should come to hisears"--
"So much the better that the hesitation should come from me. But if youthink it better, I can sit down here and write to him at once decliningthe offer." She moved towards the desk.
"No! No! I did not mean that," said Harcourt quickly. "I only thoughtthat if he did hear anything it might be said that he had backed out."
"His sister knows of his offer, and though she don't like it nor me, shewill not deny the fact. By the way, you remember when she was lost thatday on the road to San Mateo?"
"Yes."
"Well, she was with your son, John Milton, all the time, and theylunched together at Crystal Spring. It came out quite accidentallythrough the hotel-keeper."
Harcourt's brow darkened. "Did she know him before?"
"I can't say; but she does now."
Harcourt's face was heavy with distrust. "Taking Shipley's offer andthese scandals into consideration, I don't like the look of this,Clementina."
"I do," said the girl simply.
Harcourt gazed at her keenly and with the shadow of distrust still uponhim. It seemed to be quite impossible, even with what he knew of hercalmly cold nature, that she should be equally uninfluenced by Grant orShipley. Had she some steadfast, lofty ideal, or perhaps some alreadyabsorbing passion of which he knew nothing? She was not a girl to betrayit--they would only know it when it was too late. Could it be possiblethat there was still something between her and 'Lige that he knewnothing of? The thought struck a chill to his breast. She was walkingtowards the door, when he recalled himself with an effort.
"If you think it advisable to see Fletcher, you might run down to SanJose for a day or two with your mother, and call on the Ramirez.They may know him or somebody who does. Of course if YOU meet him andcasually invite him it would be different."
"It's a good idea," she said quickly. "I'll do it, and speak to mothernow."
He was struck by the chang
e in her face and voice; they had bothnervously lightened, as oddly and distinctly as they had before seemedto grow suddenly harsh and aggressive. She passed out of the room withgirlish brusqueness, leaving him alone with a new and vague fear in hisconsciousness.
A few hours later Clementina was standing before the window of thedrawing-room that overlooked the outskirts of the town. The moonlightwas flooding the vast bluish Tasajara levels with a faint lustre, as ifthe waters of the creek had once more returned to them. In the shadow ofthe curtain beside her Grant was facing her with anxious eyes.
"Then I must take this as your final answer, Clementina?"
"You must. And had I known of these calumnies before, had you been frankwith me even the day we went to San Mateo, my answer would have been asfinal then, and you might have been spared any further suspense. I amnot blaming you, Mr. Grant; I am willing to believe that you thoughtit best to conceal this from me,--even at that time when you had justpledged yourself to find out its truth or falsehood,--yet my answerwould have been the same. So long as this stain rests on my father'sname I shall never allow that name to be coupled with yours in marriageor engagement; nor will my pride or yours allow us to carry on a simplefriendship after this. I thank you for your offer of assistance, butI cannot even accept that which might to others seem to allow somecontingent claim. I would rather believe that when you proposed thisinquiry and my father permitted it, you both knew that it put an end toany other relations between us."
"But, Clementina, you are wrong, believe me! Say that I have beenfoolish, indiscreet, mad,--still the few who knew that I made theseinquiries on your father's behalf know nothing of my hopes of YOU!"
"But I do, and that is enough for me."
Even in the hopeless preoccupation of his passion he suddenly lookedat her with something of his old critical scrutiny. But she stood therecalm, concentrated, self-possessed and upright. Yes! it was possiblethat the pride of this Southwestern shopkeepers daughter was greaterthan his own.
"Then you banish me, Clementina?"
"It is we whom YOU have banished."
"Good-night."
"Good-by."
He bent for an instant over her cold hand, and then passed out into thehall. She remained listening until the front door closed behind him.Then she ran swiftly through the hall and up the staircase, with analacrity that seemed impossible to the stately goddess of a momentbefore. When she had reached her bedroom and closed the door, soexuberant still and so uncontrollable was her levity and action, thatwithout going round the bed which stood before her in the centre ofthe room, she placed her two hands upon it and lightly vaulted sidewaysacross it to reach the window. There she watched the figure of Grantcrossing the moonlit square. Then turning back into the half-lit room,she ran to the small dressing-glass placed at an angle on a toilet tableagainst the wall. With her palms grasping her knees she stoopeddown suddenly and contemplated the mirror. It showed what no one butClementina had ever seen,--and she herself only at rare intervals,--thelaughing eyes and soul of a self-satisfied, material-minded, ordinarycountry-girl!
