His rage and indignation a few days later may be readily conceived, when he found, on returning to his new-made home, another square of paper, folded like the first, but much fresher and whiter, lying within the cavity, on top of some moss which had evidently been placed there for the purpose. This he felt was really more than he could bear, but it was smaller, and with a few energetic kicks and whisks of his tail he managed to finally dislodge it through the opening, where it fell ignominiously to the earth. The eager eyes of the ever-attendant crow, however, instantly detected it; he flew to the ground, and, turning it over, examined it gravely. It was certainly not edible, but it was exceedingly rare, and, as an old collector of curios, he felt he could not pass it by. He lifted it in his beak, and, with a desperate struggle against the superincumbent weight, regained the branch with his prize. Here, by one of those delicious vagaries of animal nature, he apparently at once discharged his mind of the whole affair, became utterly oblivious of it, allowed it to drop without the least concern, and eventually flew away with an abstracted air, as if he had been another bird entirely. The paper got into a manzanita bush, where it remained suspended until the evening, when, being dislodged by a passing wild-cat on its way to Mulrady’s hen-roost, it gave that delicately sensitive marauder such a turn that she fled into the adjacent county.
But the troubles of the squirrel were not yet over. On the following day the young man who had accompanied the young woman returned to the trunk, and the squirrel had barely time to make his escape before the impatient visitor approached the opening of the cavity, peered into it, and even passed his hand through its recesses. The delight visible upon his anxious and serious face at the disappearance of the letter, and the apparent proof that it had been called for, showed him to have been its original depositor, and probably awakened a remorseful recollection in the dark bosom of the omnipresent crow, who uttered a conscious-stricken croak from the bough above him. But the young man quickly disappeared again, and the squirrel was once more left in undisputed possession.
A week passed. A weary, anxious interval to Don Cæsar, who had neither seen nor heard from Mamie since their last meeting. Too conscious of his own self-respect to call at the house after the equivocal conduct of Mrs. Mulrady, and too proud to haunt the lanes and approaches in the hope of meeting her daughter, like an ordinary lover, he hid his gloomy thoughts in the monastic shadows of the courtyard at Los Gatos, or found relief in furious riding at night and early morning on the highway. Once or twice the up-stage had been overtaken and passed by a rushing figure as shadowy as a phantom horseman, with only the star-like point of a cigarette to indicate its humanity. It was in one of these fierce recreations that he was obliged to stop in early morning at the blacksmith’s shop at Rough-and-Ready, to have a loosend horseshoe replaced, and while waiting picked up a newspaper. Don Cæsar seldom read the papers, but noticing that this was the “Record,” he glanced at its columns. A familiar name suddenly flashed out of the dark type like a spark from the anvil. With a brain and heart that seemed to be beating in unison with the blacksmith’s sledge, he read as follows:—
“Our distinguished fellow-townsman, Alvin Mulrady, Esq., left town day before yesterday to attend an important meeting of directors of the Red Dog Ditch Company, in San Francisco. Society will regret to hear that Mrs. Mulrady and her beautiful and accomplished daughter, who are expecting to depart for Europe at the end of the month, anticipated the event nearly a fortnight, by taking this opportunity of accompanying Mr. Mulrady as far as San Francisco, on their way to the East. Mrs. and Miss Mulrady intend to visit London, Paris, and Berlin, and will be absent three years. It is possible that Mr. Mulrady may join them later at one or other of those capitals. Considerable disappointment is felt that a more extended leave-taking was not possible, and that, under the circumstances, no opportunity was offered for a ‘send off’ suitable to the condition of the parties and the esteem in which they are held in Rough-and-Ready.”
The paper dropped from his hands. Gone! and without a word! No, that was impossible! There must be some mistake; she had written; the letter had miscarried; she must have sent word to Los Gatos, and the stupid messenger had blundered; she had probably appointed another meeting, or expected him to follow to San Francisco. “The day before yesterday!” It was the morning’s paper—she had been gone scarcely two days—it was not too late yet to receive a delayed message by post, by some forgetful hand—by—ah—the tree!
Of course it was in the tree, and he had not been there for a week! Why had he not thought of it before? The fault was his, not hers. Perhaps she had gone away, believing him faithless, or a country boor.
“In the name of the Devil, will you keep me here till eternity!”
The blacksmith stared at him. Don Cæsar suddenly remembered that he was speaking, as he was thinking—in Spanish.
“Ten dollars, my friend, if you have done in five minutes!”
The man laughed. “That’s good enough American,” he said, beginning to quicken his efforts. Don Cæsar again took up the paper. There was another paragraph that recalled his last interview with Mamie:—
“Mr. Harry Slinn, Jr., the editor of this paper, has just moved into the pioneer house formerly occupied by Alvin Mulrady, Esq., which has already become historic in the annals of the county. Mr. Slinn brings with him his father—H. J. Slinn, Esq.,—and his two sisters. Mr. Slinn, Sen., who has been suffering for many years from complete paralysis, we understand is slowly improving; and it is by the advice of his physicians that he has chosen the invigorating air of the foothills as a change to the debilitating heat of Sacramento.”
The affair had been quickly settled, certainly, reflected Don Cæsar, with a slight chill of jealousy, as he thought of Mamie’s interest in the young editor. But the next moment he dismissed it from his mind; all except a dull consciousness that, if she really loved him—Don Cæsar—as he loved her, she could not have assisted in throwing into his society the young sisters of the editor, who she expected might be so attractive.
Within the five minutes the horse was ready, and Don Cæsar in the saddle again. In less than half an hour he was at the wayside boulder. Here he picketed his horse, and took the narrow foot-trail through the hollow. It did not take him long to reach their old trysting-place. With a beating heart he approached the decaying trunk and looked into the cavity. There was no letter there!
A few blackened nuts and some of the dry moss he had put there were lying on the ground at its roots. He could not remember whether they were there when he had last visited the spot. He began to grope in the cavity with both hands. His fingers struck against the sharp angles of a flat paper packet: a thrill of joy ran through them and stopped his beating heart; he drew out the hidden object, and was chilled with disappointment.
It was an ordinary-sized envelope of yellowish-brown paper, bearing, besides the usual government stamp, the official legend of an express company, and showing its age as much by this record of a now obsolete carrying service as by the discoloration of time and atmosphere. Its weight, which was heavier than that of any ordinary letter of the same size and thickness, was evidently due to some loose enclosures, that slightly rustled and could be felt by the fingers, like minute pieces of metal or grains of gravel. It was within Don Cæsar’s experience that gold specimens were often sent in that manner. It was in a state of singular preservation, except the address, which, being written in pencil, was scarcely discernible, and even when deciphered appeared to be incoherent and unfinished. The unknown correspondent had written “dear Mary,” and then “Mrs. Mary Slinn,” with an unintelligible scrawl following for the direction. If Don Cæsar’s mind had not been lately preoccupied with the name of the editor, he would hardly have guessed the superscription.
In his cruel disappointment and fully aroused indignation, he at once began to suspect a connection of circumstances which at any other moment he would have thought purely accidental, or perhaps not have considered at all. The cavity in the tree had evidently been used as a secret receptacle for letters before; did Mamie know it at the time, and how did she know it? The apparent age of the letter made it preposterous to suppose that it pointed to any secret correspondence of hers with young Mr. Slinn; and the address was not in her handwriting. Was there any secret previous intimacy between the families? There was but one way in which he could connect this letter with Mamie’s faithlessness. It was an infamous, a grotesquely horrible idea, a thought which sprang as much from his inexperience of the world and his habitual suspiciousness of all humor as anything else! It was that the letter was a brutal joke of Slinn’s—a joke perhaps concocted by Mamie and himself—a parting insult that should at the last moment proclaim their treachery and his own credulity. Doubtless it contained a declaration of their shame, and the reason why she had fled from him without a word of explanation. And the enclosure, of course, was some significant and degrading illustration. Those Americans are full of those low conceits; it was their national vulgarity.
He had the letter in his angry hand. He could break it open if he wished and satisfy himself; but it was not addressed to him, and the instinct of honor, strong even in his rage, was the instinct of an adversary as well. No; Slinn should open the letter before him. Slinn should explain everything, and answer for it. If it was nothing—a mere accident—it would lead to some general explanation, and perhaps even news of Mamie. But he would arraign Slinn, and at once. He put the letter in his pocket, quickly retraced his steps to his horse, and, putting spurs to the animal, followed the high road to the gate of Mulrady’s pioneer cabin.
He remembered it well enough. To a cultivated taste, it was superior to the more pretentious “new house.” During the first year of Mulrady’s tenancy, the plain square log-cabin had received those additions and attractions which only a tenant can conceive and actual experience suggest; and in this way the hideous right angles were broken with sheds, “lean-to” extensions, until a certain picturesqueness was given to the irregularity of outline, and a home-like security and companionship to the congregated buildings. It typified the former life of the great capitalist, as the tall new house illustrated the loneliness and isolation that wealth had given him. But the real points of vantage were the years of cultivation and habitation that had warmed and enriched the soil, and evoked the climbing vines and roses that already hid its unpainted boards, rounded its hard outlines, and gave projection and shadow from the pitiless glare of a summer’s long sun, or broke the steady beating of the winter rains. It was true that pea and bean poles surrounded it on one side, and the only access to the house was through the cabbage rows that once were the pride and sustenance of the Mulradys. It was this fact, more than any other, that had impelled Mrs. Mulrady to abandon its site; she did not like to read the history of their humble origin reflected in the faces of their visitors as they entered.
Don Cæsar tied his horse to the fence, and hurriedly approached the house. The door, however, hospitably opened when he was a few paces from it, and when he reached the threshold he found himself unexpectedly in the presence of two pretty girls. They were evidently Slinn’s sisters, whom he had neither thought of nor included in the meeting he had prepared. In spite of his preoccupation, he felt himself suddenly embarrassed, not only by the actual distinction of their beauty, but by a kind of likeness that they seemed to bear to Mamie.
“We saw you coming,” said the elder, unaffectedly. “You are Don Cæsar Alvarado. My brother has spoken of you.”
The words recalled Don Cæsar to himself and a sense of courtesy. He was not here to quarrel with these fair strangers at their first meeting; he must seek Slinn elsewhere, and at another time. The frankness of his reception and the allusion to their brother made it appear impossible that they should be either a party to his disappointment, or even aware of it. His excitement melted away before a certain lazy ease, which the consciousness of their beauty seemed to give them. He was able to put a few courteous inquiries, and, thanks to the paragraph in the “Record,” to congratulate them upon their father’s improvement.
“Oh, pa is a great deal better in his health, and has picked up even in the last few days, so that he is able to walk round with crutches,” said the elder sister. “The air here seems to invigorate him wonderfully.”
“And you know, Esther,” said the younger, “I think he begins to take more notice of things, especially when he is out-of-doors. He looks around on the scenery, and his eye brightens, as if he knew all about it; and sometimes he knits his brows, and looks down so, as if he was trying to remember.”
“You know, I suppose,” exclaimed Esther, “that since his seizure his memory has been a blank—that is, three or four years of his life seem to have been dropped out of his recollection.”
“It might be a mercy sometimes, Señora,” said Don Cæsar, with a grave sigh, as he looked at the delicate features before him, which recalled the face of the absent Mamie.
“That’s not very complimentary,” said the younger girl, laughingly; “for pa didn’t recognize us, and only remembered us as little girls.”
“Vashti!” interrupted Esther, rebukingly; then, turning to Don Cæsar, she added, “My sister, Vashti, means that father remembers more what happened before he came to California, when we were quite young, than he does of the interval that elapsed. Dr. Duchesne says it’s a singular case. He thinks that, with his present progress, he will recover the perfect use of his limbs; though his memory may never come back again.”
“Unless— You forget what the doctor told us this morning,” interrupted Vashti again, briskly.
“I was going to say it,” said Esther, a little curtly. “Unless he has another stroke. Then he will either die or recover his mind entirely.”
Don Cæsar glanced at the bright faces, a trifle heightened in color by their eager recital and the slight rivalry of narration, and looked grave. He was a little shocked at a certain lack of sympathy and tenderness towards their unhappy parent. They seemed to him not only to have caught that dry, curious toleration of helplessness which characterizes even relationship in its attendance upon chronic suffering and weakness, but to have acquired an unconscious habit of turning it to account. In his present sensitive condition, he even fancied that they flirted mildly over their parent’s infirmity.
“My brother Harry has gone to Red Dog,” continued Esther; “he’ll be right sorry to have missed you. Mrs. Mulrady spoke to him about you; you seem to have been great friends. I s’pose you knew her daughter, Mamie; I hear she is very pretty.”
Although Don Cæsar was now satisfied that the Slinns knew nothing of Mamie’s singular behavior to him, he felt embarrassed by this conversation. “Miss Mulrady is very pretty,” he said, with grave courtesy; “it is a custom of her race. She left suddenly,” he added with affected calmness.
“I reckon she did calculate to stay here longer—so her mother said; but the whole thing was settled a week ago. I know my brother was quite surprised to hear from Mr. Mulrady that if we were going to decide about this house we must do it at once; he had an idea himself about moving out of the big one into this when they left.”
“Mamie Mulrady hadn’t much to keep her here, considerin’ the money and the good looks she has, I reckon,” said Vashti. “She isn’t the sort of girl to throw herself away in the wilderness, when she can pick and choose elsewhere. I only wonder she ever come back from Sacramento. They talk about papa Mulrady having business at San Francisco, and that hurrying them off! Depend upon it, that ‘business’ was Mamie herself. Her wish is gospel to them. If she’d wanted to stay and have a farewell party, old Mulrady’s business would have been nowhere.”
“Ain’t you a little rough on Mamie,” said Esther, who had been quietly watching the young man’s face with her large languid eyes, “considering that we don’t know her, and haven’t even the right of friends to criticise?”
“I don’t call it rough,” returned Vashti, frankly, “for I’d do the same if I were in her shoes—and they’re four-and-a-halves, for Harry told me so. Give me her money and her looks, and you wouldn’t catch me hanging round these diggings—goin’ to choir meetings Saturdays, church Sundays, and buggy-riding once a month—for society! No—Mamie’s head was level—you bet!”
Don Cæsar rose hurriedly. They would present his compliments to their father, and he would endeavor to find their brother at Red Dog. He, alas! had neither father, mother, nor sister, but if they would receive his aunt, the Doña Inez Sepulvida, the next Sunday, when she came from mass, she should be honored and he would be delighted. It required all his self-possession to deliver himself of this formal courtesy before he could take his leave, and on the back of his mustang give way to the rage, disgust and hatred of everything connected with Mamie that filled his heart. Conscious of his disturbance, but not entirely appreciating their own share in it, the two girls somewhat wickedly prolonged the interview by following him into the garden.
“Well, if you must leave now,” said Esther, at last, languidly, “it ain’t much out of your way to go down through the garden and take a look at pa as you go. He’s somewhere down there, near the woods, and we don’t like to leave him alone too long. You might pass the time of day with him; see if he’s right side up. Vashti and I have got a heap of things to fix here yet; but if anything’s wrong with him, you can call us. So-long.”
Don Cæsar was about to excuse himself hurriedly; but that sudden and acute perception of all kindred sorrow which belongs to refined suffering, checked his speech. The loneliness of the helpless old man in this atmosphere of active and youthful selfishness touched him. He bowed assent, and turned aside into one of the long perspectives of bean-poles. The girls watched him until out of sight.
“Well,” said Vashti, “don’t tell me. But if there wasn’t something between him and that Mamie Mulrady, I don’t know a jilted man when I see him.”
“Well, you needn’t have let him see that you knew it, so that any civility of ours would look as if we were ready to take up with her leavings,” responded Esther, astutely, as the girls reentered the house.
Meantime, the unconscious object of their criticism walked sadly down the old market-garden, whose rude outlines and homely details he once clothed with the poetry of a sensitive man’s first love. Well, it was a common cabbage field and potato patch after all. In his disgust he felt conscious of even the loss of that sense of patronage and superiority which had invested his affection for a girl of meaner condition. His self-respect was humiliated with his love. The soil and dirt of those wretched cabbages had clung to him, but not to her. It was she who had gone higher; it was he who was left in the vulgar ruins of his misplaced passion.
He reached the bottom of the garden without observing any sign of the lonely invalid. He looked up and down the cabbage rows, and through the long perspective of pea-vines, without result. There was a newer trail leading from a gap in the pines to the wooded hollow, which undoubtedly intersected the little path that he and Mamie had once followed from the high road. If the old man had taken this trail he had possibly over-tasked his strength, and there was the more reason why he should continue his search, and render any assistance if required. There was another idea that occurred to him, which eventually decided him to go on. It was that both these trails led to the decayed sycamore stump, and that the older Slinn might have something to do with the mysterious letter. Quickening his steps through the field, he entered the hollow, and reached the intersecting trail as he expected. To the right it lost itself in the dense woods in the direction of the ominous stump; to the left it descended in nearly a straight line to the highway, now plainly visible, as was equally the boulder on which he had last discovered Mamie sitting with young Slinn. If he were not mistaken, there was a figure sitting there now; it was surely a man. And by that half-bowed, helpless attitude, the object of his search!
It did not take him long to descend the track to the highway and approach the stranger. He was seated with his hands upon his knees, gazing in a vague, absorbed fashion upon the hillside, now crowned with the engine-house and chimney that marked the site of Mulrady’s shaft. He started slightly, and looked up, as Don Cæsar paused before him. The young man was surprised to see that the unfortunate man was not as old as he had expected, and that his expression was one of quiet and beatified contentment.
“Your daughters told me you were here,” said Don Cæsar, with gentle respect. “I am Cæsar Alvarado, your not very far neighbor; very happy to pay his respects to you as he has to them.”
“My daughters?” said the old man, vaguely. “Oh, yes! nice little girls. And my boy Harry. Did you see Harry? Fine little fellow, Harry.”
“I am glad to hear that you are better,” said Don Cæsar, hastily, “and that the air of our country does you no harm. God benefit you, Señor,” he added, with a profoundly reverential gesture, dropping unconsciously into the religious habit of his youth. “May he protect you, and bring you back to health and happiness!”
“Happiness?” said Slinn, amazedly. “I am happy—very happy! I have everything I want: good air, good food, good clothes, pretty little children, kind friends—” He smiled benignantly at Don Cæsar. “God is very good to me!”
Indeed, he seemed very happy; and his face, albeit crowned with white hair, unmarked by care and any disturbing impression, had so much of satisfied youth in it that the grave features of his questioner made him appear the elder. Nevertheless, Don Cæsar noticed that his eyes, when withdrawn from him, sought the hillside with the same visionary abstraction.
“It is a fine view, Señor Esslinn,” said Don Cæsar.
“It is a beautiful view, sir,” said Slinn, turning his happy eyes upon him for a moment, only to rest them again on the green slope opposite.
“Beyond that hill which you are looking at—not far, Señor Esslinn—I live. You shall come and see me there—you and your family.”
“You—you—live there?” stammered the invalid, with a troubled expression—the first and only change to the complete happiness that had hitherto suffused his face. “You—and your name is—is Ma—”
“Alvarado,” said Don Cæsar, gently. “Cæsar Alvarado.”
“You said Masters,” said the old man, with sudden querulousness.
“No, good friend. I said Alvarado,” returned Don Cæsar, gravely.
“If you didn’t say Masters, how could I say it? I don’t know any Masters.”
Don Cæsar was silent. In another moment the happy tranquillity returned to Slinn’s face; and Don Cæsar continued:—
“It is not a long walk over the hill, though it is far by the road. When you are better you shall try it. Yonder little trail leads to the top of the hill, and then—”
He stopped, for the invalid’s face had again assumed its troubled expression. Partly to change his thoughts, and partly for some inexplicable idea that had suddenly seized him, Don Cæsar continued:—
“There is a strange old stump near the trail, and in it a hole. In the hole I found this letter.” He stopped again—this time in alarm. Slinn had staggered to his feet with ashen and distorted features, and was glancing at the letter which Don Cæsar had drawn from his pocket. The muscles of his throat swelled as if he was swallowing; his lips moved, but no sound issued from them. At last, with a convulsive effort, he regained a disjointed speech, in a voice scarcely audible.
“My letter! my letter! It’s mine! Give it me! It’s my fortune—all mine! In the tunnel—hill! Masters stole it—stole my fortune! Stole it all! See, see!”
He seized the letter from Don Cæsar with trembling hands, and tore it open forcibly: a few dull yellow grains fell from it heavily, like shot, to the ground.
“See, it’s true! My letter! My gold! My strike! My—my—my God!”
A tremor passed over his face. The hand that held the letter suddenly dropped sheer and heavy as the gold had fallen. The whole side of his face and body nearest Don Cæsar seemed to drop and sink into itself as suddenly. At the same moment, and without a word, he slipped through Don Cæsar’s outstretched hands to the ground. Don Cæsar bent quickly over him, but no longer than to satisfy himself that he lived and breathed, although helpless. He then caught up the fallen letter, and, glancing over it with flashing eyes, thrust it and the few specimens in his pocket. He then sprang to his feet, so transformed with energy and intelligence that he seemed to have added the lost vitality of the man before him to his own. He glanced quickly up and down the highway. Every moment to him was precious now; but he could not leave the stricken man in the dust of the road; nor could he carry him to the house; nor, having alarmed his daughters, could he abandon his helplessness to their feeble arms. He remembered that his horse was still tied to the garden fence. He would fetch it, and carry the unfortunate man across the saddle to the gate. He lifted him with difficulty to the boulder, and ran rapidly up the road in the direction of his tethered steed. He had not proceeded far when he heard the noise of wheels behind him. It was the up stage coming furiously along. He would have called to the driver for assistance, but even through that fast-sweeping cloud of dust and motion he could see that the man was utterly oblivious of anything but the speed of his rushing chariot, and had even risen in his box to lash the infuriated and frightened animals forward.
An hour later, when the coach drew up at the Red Dog Hotel, the driver descended from the box, white, but taciturn. When he had swallowed a glass of whiskey at a single gulp, he turned to the astonished express agent, who had followed him in.
“One of two things, Jim, hez got to happen,” he said, huskily. “Either that there rock hez got to get off the road, or I have. I’ve seed him on it agin!”